


Star Date

by inb4invert, SweetSorcery



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alien Character(s), Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beach Sex, Betazoid, Bonding, Cock Rings, Counselor Credence Barebone, Crossover, Diary/Journal, Don’t copy to another site, Empath, Empathy, Falling In Love, Feeding, Fever, Future Fic, Guest Stars, Hand Feeding, Holodecks/Holosuites, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, It was the most Tender Slow Burn that's turned into a Beach side Fuckfest with Lube and Cock Rings, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Bites, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Mating, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Rituals, Meditation, Mind Meld, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Overstimulation, Pining, Plak Tow (Star Trek), Pon Farr, Protective Original Percival Graves, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Rough Kissing, Sappy, Sappy Ending, Scratching, Sex In A Cave, Slash, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Space Flight, Starfleet, Starship Captain Original Percival Graves, Telepathy, Tenderness, Touching, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vulcan, Vulcan Mind Melds, Wedding Night, Weddings, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-03 21:03:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inb4invert/pseuds/inb4invert, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: Falling in love with the ship's counselor is complicated enough for a Starfleet captain. When that counselor is half Betazoid and half Vulcan, the challenges are... unique.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   


_Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 41153.7:_

_Every "evening," my ship's duties having been seen to and most major problems and crises solved, I take a meal and a light nightcap in Ten Forward to watch the stars. The windows there offer a view unparalleled by any other part of the USS Obscurus, besides perhaps the bridge itself._

_But the bridge is not designed for admiration of the stars, and, it seems, neither was Ten Forward. At least not any more._

_I've been watching the stars all my life, dreaming of them, longing to be right where I am now: among them. I've worked hard to earn that position. I never would have dreamed that any other sight could usurp their place in my esteem._

_I never would have dreamed it, and yet…_

_Now every evening, my eyes are drawn away from those great windows and their passing stars… and settled firmly on_ him. _Counselor Barbok._

_He's only recently joined our crew: a transfer from Deep Space Nine, and he seems to share my habit of quietly haunting Ten Forward when the day is done._

_Half Vulcan and half Betazoid... and_ all _delicate beauty. I came out here to explore the mysteries of the universe only to discover every single one of them resides in this strange creature's dark and limitless eyes._

_I fear I am in peril._

***

The doors open on a sigh and Captain Graves' eyes flick up towards them, both cautious and eager, wanting to seek out and somehow shield himself from what he's seeking all at once. And, with the catching of his breath, his glance is rewarded by the sight of the ship's counselor, statuesque and clad in blue robes that flow like water along his graceful path towards the bar. 

The Captain's own sigh echoes that of the door. He could pretend to himself that he wasn't waiting, wasn't twisting the stem of his glass between idle fingers, hoping all the while for a glimpse of dark eyes and pale skin. But he didn't get all the way to becoming Captain of a Galaxy-class starship by hiding from his own desires--quite the opposite. He's always chased his ambitions with intensity and focus, breaking more than one record as he rose up in the ranks of Starfleet. And that same intensity, that single-mindedness--for the first time in his life, it won't serve him well here. 

Because it's not the hiding from himself that Captain Graves is concerned with now. It's keeping those seething desires and _wants_ tightly bridled and confined to his personal log, rather than having them run roughshod over the tender sensitivities of a Betazoid empath. An empath with the keen self-possession of a Vulcan, no less. Counselor Barbok doesn't need to feel the brunt of his uninvited lust, any more than Captain Graves needs him even _knowing_ the depth of his struggle. 

The counselor has painted his lips blood red tonight and Captain Graves feels the sight like a wound in his chest. That could be his own heartblood staining that full mouth, he thinks, poured out like a sacrifice into the cut crystal decanter now placed quietly on the bar before him. Counselor Barbok is as much a creature of habit as he is himself, and the knowledge only kindles his affection, leaves it simmering into something fond, aspiring towards familiar. He wants so much to believe that they could grow to have… a great understanding of one another, if only he can manage to tame his thoughts. To be able to do so would be a feat greater than any of his previous legendary accomplishments. 

***

_Counselor's Personal Log, Stardate 41153.8:_

_It’s become a ritual, my nightly visit to Ten Forward. Like most rituals, it brings with it a comfort that is hard to find on a ship of nearly 1,000 souls--all of whom broadcast constant emotions and thoughts. There are quieter times, however, when the ship runs with a skeleton crew and everyone else is at rest._

_I time my ritual to coincide with such a quiet period, and I’ve discovered that many of my shipmates are regular features in Ten Forward during these times. That’s in itself a comfort, as most of them are very regular in their mental patterns._

_For example, Ensigns Kiernan and De Soto are focussed intently on their game of chess, which I believe has been going on for close to three weeks. Lieutenant Mak’bar spends a lot of time worrying about his own childhood and how to ensure to be a good parent to his unborn litter. Lieutenant-Commander McCoy is ever preoccupied with living up to the name of her ancestors, several of whom have served in Starfleet; she spares a moment here and there for Commander Szabo and whether or not he will like her new haircut. Most others present are occupied with ship’s business, working on computations in their off-hours to impress their superior officer, or studying for the Academy exams._

_And then there is the captain. I can’t help note that, ever since I’ve made my venture into Ten Forward a regular nightly event, Captain Graves has contrived to be there before me. He’s a creature of habit, which has always struck me as amusing for a man whose occupation it is to seek out the new and unusual. Then again, in the captain’s case, his presence here is due to both sides of his personality: he, too, finds comfort in the predictability of an evening at Ten Forward; and I’m the new and unusual phenomenon he seeks out here._

_Sensing the thoughts and emotions of a humanoid during a first encounter is always… interesting, to say the least. In the case of the captain, our first meeting was the one and only time he was unable to control his inner workings at all. It was clear to me at once that he had never encountered anything as unexpected as a half-Betazoid, half-Vulcan. Unable to decide whether to shield his feelings or his thoughts first, he failed to do either, and it took all of the control my mother’s species has instilled in me not to react to the chaotic, if extremely flattering, assessment he made of me in those first few moments._

_He’s improved greatly since, at shielding his mind and sentiments from me, if not nearly as much as he thinks._

***

“Good evening, captain.”

Captain Graves has rushed to stand and pull out a chair for the counselor by the time he’s barely halfway across the raised section of the bar. “Good evening, counselor, will you… please, join me.”

A cool but gentle smile and a nod acknowledge his request, and the delicate being slides into the seat with silent grace, setting down the glass of Murvonian coconut punch with a light clink.

The captain examines the pale, milky drink topped with a layer of tiny bubbles cycling through a range of shades of blue and green--popping open and reforming continuously with the tinkling sounds of a quiet Alien symphony.

“I can’t help wishing you would hold a seminar on exotic beverages, counselor. I would sign up right away. I don’t believe I’ve seen you with the same drink twice.”

The blood red lips turn up in a heart-stopping smile and, when their eyes meet across the bubbling drink, Captain Graves can’t help wondering about the efficiency of his shields--not the ship’s, which are functioning perfectly, but his own.

“There’s nothing very exotic about this drink, captain. It’s been around for over one hundred years.”

Returning the smile, Graves says, “Ah, you must pardon my ignorance. I rarely try anything new, so being able to tell a Romulan ale from a Raktajino is a real source of pride to me.”

The soft, tinkling hint of a laugh this elicits makes Graves forget, for a moment, that half of the delightful creature before him is Vulcan and, consequently, his thoughts go somewhat astray. He reins them in again quickly enough, or so he hopes. In an attempt to reassure the counselor that he is well aware of both sides of his heritage, he blurts out, “I’m always surprised at your whimsical and playful choices, counselor. They seem so… illogical.”

Taking a sip of the bubbling drink, Counselor Barebone watches the way the captain observes him. After setting down the glass, and licking his deep red lips, he says, “Oh, but I am quite capable of being whimsical and playful, captain. There’s a time and place for everything, and a relaxing evening at Ten Forward seems a good time and place to be so.”

"I might take a page from your book sometime," Captain Graves ventures. "As it is, I'm nursing nothing more daring than a simple Bordeaux." 

He swirls the wine slowly at the bottom of his glass for effect, taking in how the counselor's eyes are darker than the space between the stars when seen this close. He rarely comes this close, in fact, and for all his self-deprecating talk of lacking true daring, to do so feels like an act of courage and pure will.

The counselor treats him to a slow smile, appraising the vintage before raising his eyes enough to carry that appraisal to the captain himself. 

"A fine choice," he says, "and an aesthetic one, as well. The wine compliments your uniform." 

"And your lips," Captain Graves quickly offers, and just as quickly begins to colour _himself_: high on his cheeks, a shade to rival the wine. 

"Your observation is correct," the counselor returns, as though his uncalled-for statement were simply one of many answers in a Starfleet exam. Captain Graves could kiss him for the kindness of it, but won't allow himself to pursue the thought for more than a fleeting second, hoping beneath the deepening of his blush that the counselor will just as kindly allow the thought to pass with as much grace as he did his words. All considerations of tests and answers aside, no Starfleet exam was ever this hard. Not for the first time in less than five minutes, Captain Graves questions the wisdom of having joined the counselor on this evening. 

"I'm told the famous captain of the equally famous USS Enterprise in fact hails from a family renowned for their vineyards on Earth," the counselor says. The Captain's shoulders drop infinitesimally in his relief, and while no one else would have even seen his tension, he's sure the counselor must have felt it like the crush of a fist. Even so, his blush makes one last valiant surge at having been caught out in his absolute predictability once again. 

He can't help but chuckle. "This is, indeed, one of Picard Vineyard's award-winning vintages." He spares the glass a fond glance. "I'm afraid I insisted on having the Obscurus supplied with it." 

The sudden arch of the counselor's sweeping dark brows holds more fascination for Captain Graves than his first glimpse of Risa's twin moons: beautiful and wholly unexpected. You can know about a thing all your life in books, can stare at it for hours on a viewscreen, but seeing it in person is another thing entirely. He has surprised the counselor somehow, pleasantly even, and the knowledge fills him with a warmth of covetous pride.

"It isn't replicated?" Counselor Barbok asks, voice rising on a rare inquisitive note. Beautifully musical. The captain nearly sighs aloud at the sound. 

"I'm afraid not," he admits a little sheepishly. "I had them bring several kegs into the cargo hold before the ship embarked. In fact, I made quite a stink about it, I'll be the first to own up to that before you hear any stories. It's… not the sort of thing a replicator can do any justice."

The sound of the counselor's surprised question holds nothing to the shimmering peal of laughter he lets free like a gift, something to keep and hold onto when the world is darkest. Something to treasure. Several crew persons about the lounge turn to look briefly in varying shades of shock and Captain Graves inwardly triumphs. He realises then that he's grown honestly short of breath, just having made this exquisite, enigmatic being _laugh_. If he could stock the cargo hold with several kegs full of that sound itself, he'd make a second fuss worth no end of ship's gossip.

"Please, captain," the counselor finally says, "tell me you've at least tried a Cardassian sunrise?" The look he gives Captain Graves is both hopeful and cautiously amused, and the captain's heart feels as though it's done a full 180 degree flip.

He shakes his head, laughing at himself now for more reasons than one. "I haven't," he says. "I'm incorrigible, I know."

"Well," Counselor Barbok grows suddenly more serious again, sizing him up with those inscrutable eyes. "I think it may be a matter of diplomacy, as ship's captain, that you learn as much about the various customs around imbibing--of any and all races you will chance to engage with throughout our mission. I would be, as ship's counselor, happy to assist you in this." That Mona Lisa smile delicately pulls at the corner of his red lips. "Starting with the very rudimentary Cardassian sunrise."

Captain Graves is no less than completely stunned. "I… I believe you're absolutely right. Very generous of you, counselor, to correct this admittedly foolhardy oversight. We must commence my lessons immediately."

The captain eases back in his seat, feeling finally at ease with the counselor in a way he never has before. He waves the bar keep over to briefly place his second order, and then allows himself a long moment to study his drinking companion in lingering sidelong glances. The bluntly cropped hair, straight as a Reman blade across his pale forehead, abruptly transitions into sensual dark curls that spill from temple to softly rounded shoulder. The counselor's face itself is a similar study in contrasts: the sculpted angles of his sharp jaw framing crimson lips that can only be described as plush, like a rare exotic bloom thriving inexplicably amongst shards of clearest ice. The thought comes unbidden-- _if anyone ever harms you…_

This time, Captain Graves lets free the sentiment, with full feeling.

The dark eyes turn to him at once, wide and astonished, and there is a moment--a rather long moment--during which the counselor merely looks at him, appearing as stunned as Graves himself had been minutes ago. The red lips part, close again, then part once more for the counselor to take a slow sip of his drink, before he replaces his glass on the table without letting go of the stem. Throughout, his eyes remain fixed on the captain’s, unblinking.

Captain Graves, one finger tugging his uniform collar away from his neck, considers having the environmental controls checked.

“Thank you for your concern, captain, but I’m certain I’m in no danger,” are the words which finally emerge from the other man’s mouth, and Graves doesn’t think he’s imagining that they sound a little more brittle, a little less self-assured and unaffected, than Counselor Barbok’s voice usually does. “I have every confidence in the Obscurus, her crew, and Starfleet safety protocols. I feel quite safe aboard this vessel.”

Unable to leave things there, Graves asks softly, “What about her captain?”

The counselor does blink now, a few times in fact, before answering. “I feel especially safe with _you_, captain.”

Releasing a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, Captain Graves relaxes into a shaky smile. “I’m very glad to hear that, counselor.”

It is then that his Cardassian sunrise is placed before him, so close to the counselor’s drink that Graves has to reach to pull it closer. For a moment, his fingertips touch the base of the other’s glass, and he lets them slide up and over the cool, pale tips of his fingers before pulling his own glass towards himself, feeling shaken to the core both by the man’s admission and the brief contact.

He’s so preoccupied with the impact on himself, it takes him a few moments to look up and meet the other’s eyes again. Counselor Barbok’s eyes are darting from side to side between his own, as though he’s in REM sleep while fully awake. He looks like a startled fawn.

The captain is tempted to reach out and pet the soft waves of hair, the slightly flushed cheeks, the side of the graceful neck and the curve of the silk-clad shoulders, whispering calming words along with apologies for being so forward. Naturally, _more_ touch is out of the question, considering how he must have horrified the counselor already. So he does the only thing he can think to do--he seeks refuge in ship’s business.

And if, during their discussion of work, interspersed with his very favourable opinions on his Cardassian sunrise, their eyes connect more frequently than usual... and if the conversation briefly falls into comfortable lulls of silence, rapid breaths and fingers edging close again on the tabletop, before being pulled back hurriedly... well, Captain Graves is quite sure it’s only his imagination running away with him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 41161.9_

_I have just returned to my quarters after a diplomatic away mission to the Andorian surface that I can only describe as "harrowing."_

_These sorts of duties are admittedly my least favourite in the life of a ship's captain, and yet they hold the capacity to be greatly rewarding should they go well. I can't say the mission itself went exactly well in this instance, and a full briefing will of course be made in the official Captain's Log._

_Somehow, despite what I would be inclined to view as an early failure in my post as Captain of the USS Obscurus, I've come away from the experience feeling more confident and accomplished than I could've expected in other, perhaps more important, regards._

_As always, this has to do entirely with Counselor Barbok. His unflappable calm and the depth of his immense gifts proved, as always, to be the greatest asset to our away team. Despite unfortunate diplomatic setbacks, I am hopeful that I may have strengthened whatever fledgling bond there is between us on this day._

_Let me one day look back on this exhausting log entry with a smile, seeing it as the pivotal turning point I'm now growing certain it was._

***

It's near the end of the steadily unravelling proceedings that Captain Graves sees Counselor Barbok's rigidly poised spine dip in what can only be called a _swoon_.

They'd been in conference for close to five hours, with no resolution in sight. That alone would not have worn away at the counselor's seemingly inexhaustible reserves, if not for the nature of the dispute and the particular traits of those involved. A sizable party of blue-skinned Andorians were adamant in their apparent right to raze and develop a small territory belonging to a clan of the more elusive and pale Aenar--a subrace once considered mere myth, and often treated as though they still were.

The Aenar are blind, and as a result, highly telepathic. Add to that fact the fiercely passionate emotions of _all_ Andorians, not to mention their inherent distrust of humans and near-hatred of Vulcans… and you have an away mission almost perfectly concocted to over-tax the poor counselor.

Amidst the cacophony of rising shouts, Captain Graves curses himself, for likely the hundredth time that day, for the oversight.

He sees it happen almost as though it were occuring in slow motion, as the counselor's hand rises to press protectively against one temple, his brow creasing in a nearly unheard of frown. His shoulders sag as if pushed beneath a sudden weight--and Captain Graves is there in a heartbeat, one arm curved at the small of the counselor's back and his free hand already against the communicator at his own breast.

"Bridge! Two to beam up!"

Even as the transporter beam takes hold, in those last few seconds, Captain Graves relishes the warm weight of Counselor Barbok in his arms. He already knows the moment will likely haunt him, and still he never wants to feel it again, if this is what it takes. He never wants him in _any_ kind of distress.

“But captain, the conference...” Those are the counselor’s first words after materialising on the Obscurus. For all that, he does not try to disentangle himself.

Captain Graves, ignoring the astonished transporter chief as he walks Barbok out into the corridor, grumbles, “To hell with the conference!”

Trying to decide whether to take the counselor to sickbay--unlikely to help his particular problem, or his own quarters--which might make him uncomfortable, he walks him to the counselor’s quarters, sorely tempted all the way there to lift him into his arms and carry him. The only thing stopping him is his knowledge of how much the man values his dignity and the crew’s respect, and would likely not appreciate his rare momentary weakness being broadcast.

The captain is also not at all certain how he himself would cope, considering the effect the silk-clad form pressed into his side, head tilting onto his shoulder whenever the corridor is empty, has on him already. He can’t help but notice the sweetly spicy scent of the man’s hair, and its softness, whenever it slides against his cheek and nose, and he can only hope he won’t be overcome with a swoon of his own. It wouldn’t do for them both to be found lying entangled in a corridor.

There’s a soft, tittering sound coming from the counselor’s lips, and Captain Graves, flushing, is forced to acknowledge his fear might have formed somewhat too clear an image in his mind. This does give him an idea, however.

After using his security code override on the door to the counselor’s quarters, he leads him inside and to the nearest horizontal surface: the bed. Fervently hoping the man won’t mind, he prompts him to sit down with the slightest pressure on his shoulders, then kneels at his feet to remove his soft boots--a perfect match to his iridescent blue and silver robes. Struggling not to let his hands linger on the long, narrow feet and shapely ankles, he raises the counselor’s legs while stabilising him with a hand in the small of his back, nudging him into lying down.

“I assure you, captain, I’m…”

“Fine? I know, counselor. I know. You’re the most professional and dutiful member of my crew, but please, humour me and rest a little?”

With an almost infinitesimal nod, the counselor’s head sinks into the smooth, nearly liquid-looking pillow, his long hair fanning out over the purple silk like a halo of finely spun dark matter.

Suppressing a sigh, Captain Graves is reminded of how his ship came by its name. His discovery of the Obscurus phenomenon--a fast-travelling cloud of dark matter formed and moving away from wherever certain violent space events are about to occur--was what had given his career a significant nudge. Until the day he first looked into Counselor Barbok’s eyes, he had never seen anything deeper, darker, or more spellbinding, than an Obscurus.

The counselor makes a soft sound and shifts a little, as though he had dozed off and woken up to remember his overtaxed state.

Sitting on the very edge of the bed, Captain Graves lightly touches his shoulder. “Hush now, just relax. All is well.” He proceeds to put the plan he formed in the corridor into action, concentrating hard and hoping he can make this work, using every scrap of information he’s ever learned on successful visualisation.

A couple of minutes go by, during which the counselor’s breathing slows and evens out. The pale skin between the brows is once more smooth, the lashes rest against the downy cheeks, and the red lips are gently parted.

Captain Graves has to look away and gaze through the viewport above the bed. The mottled pale blue surface of the moon Andoria is infinitely less fascinating than the counselor’s features, and even the ringed gas giant it orbits holds little interest. However, to concentrate on the images he’s forming in his mind, for the counselor’s benefit, is made far easier by the less… inspiring view.

When the counselor next speaks, amusement is very evident in his voice. “Captain, your mental recreation of the Opal Sea and the Janaran Falls makes me wonder when you’ve visited Betazed?”

Meeting the half-lidded eyes, Graves grows a little flustered. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t, though I dearly wish to correct this oversight.” When the counselor’s eyes open in surprise, he admits, “I may have some art prints of scenic places on… uh… certain worlds in my private quarters.”

The counselor, thankfully, does not ask which worlds. A slow smile plays about his lips. “And what of the field of blue flowers, the playful puppies and kittens, the calm clouds and rainbows?”

Now truly flustered, Captain Graves murmurs, “Just my attempts to soothe your mind, counselor. Naturally, I couldn’t hope to--”

A slender hand is placed on his forearm, silencing him. He gazes at it, unable to believe he’s on the receiving end of such an unprecedented gesture from the intensely private, cool, touch-shy counselor.

“Thank you, captain. It was exactly what I needed.”

The words are spoken softly. Fondly, Graves might even imagine, if he allows himself to get carried away. His private sojourns into the holodeck in his off hours--the Zen meditation program he's quickly coming to genuinely look forward to each day--seems to be paying off. Both in the way it allows him to make himself less of a mental burden on the counselor, and in the way he's learned to temper and even guard his stray thoughts. He's nowhere near adept at it yet, but he's certain that his meditation practice is helping him to become a better captain. He's even more certain that Barbok himself is making both a better captain and a better man of him, just through his steadfast proximity alone. 

The meditation will be a crucial aid in dealing with that very proximity. The pale hand still rests over his forearm, and the captain's heart is in his throat. He isn't sure whether he's meant to return the touch, but he wants more than anything right now to believe that it's not simply gratitude he's being shown. His most private hopes are begging that it's something as possessive as he nearly believes it is-- the counselor's hand isn't simply resting lightly. Slender fingers have curled over his sleeve, apparently with intentions on staying for the moment. Captain Graves is almost on the verge of holding his breath. 

"The Aenar are right, you know." The counselor speaks the words in a hush, as though anything louder would prove too much, and Captain Graves doesn't doubt that it would. Even so, the sudden statement has claimed his focus entirely. He moves his gaze (a tad reluctantly) away from Barbok's hand and back to his face, only to find that the counselor's eyes have closed in the meantime. His hand remains in place, almost like he's forgotten for the moment where it rests, although Captain Graves is certain the man's Vulcan half would never allow for such lack of awareness.

"What can you tell me?" He asks, keeping his voice just as gentle. Even as he asks the question, he holds the image of a flowing waterfall near the forefront of his mind through the words. "At this point, anything could prove to be an advantage. Or at least a chance at something like damage control." 

The counselor nods, sighing softly. "Those lands have belonged to the Aenar for centuries, just as they claim. But what the Andorians haven't told us is that their true purpose in disputing their hold has everything to do with the intention of building a mine. They… _believe_ there may be a powerful mineral ore deep beneath the Northern Wastes, one that could potentially be used for manufacturing weapons."

Hearing this, the captain has abandoned all notions of waterfalls and romping kittens. Already, he's halfway risen from the edge of the bed, but the counselor's eyes snap open and his fingers ever so subtly press where even Captain Graves had suddenly forgotten they still were.

"If this is true, I must get back to the surface at once," he says, glancing down at the palm keeping him in place.

Barbok shakes his head, but doesn't rise. "No. Your absence unsettles them. They are even now wondering if you already know their intentions, and the tension of it will cause them to become hasty. In the end, they'll tell the truth themselves, and without any ire directed towards the Federation for exposing them. All that's needed is a bit of time."

The captain settles back down again, hardly daring to believe what an asset Barbok continues to be, both for himself and for the entire crew. In his gratitude, he forgets himself completely, placing his hand over the counselor's warmly. "What great fortune for all of us," he says, "that we have you here. This could have been an epic disaster without your guidance."

Counselor Barbok's eyes are wide and fixed on his face--the captain can see that his breath has faintly quickened. Hastily, he pulls his hand away and turns his gaze about the room, giving the counselor a chance to compose himself through the fallout of his thoughtless gesture. _Skin on skin_, he thinks. _Percival, you absolute fool. Helping him off with his boots, touching fingers as he passes your glass, that's one thing. But handholding..._

He nods curtly, unable to decide on which of the tastefully Spartan furnishings his vision should settle. In the end, he simply says, "I should go and let you rest. You've done well enough for us all today."

Several things happen at once: he makes to rise, and Barbok pulls his hand away as if to let him, even as he says, "Please stay," in the softest of whispers. It takes the captain several seconds to understand what he's just heard, and several more to slowly sit back down again. When he finally returns his cautiously disbelieving gaze back to the counselor, the man is smiling faintly. Captain Graves could swear there is, impossibly, something sheepish in the way the expression sits.

"Your…. scenic mind is like a sort of shield at present," Barbok slowly offers. "And, I can't help but wonder if our project of cultural study may have had this day's affairs running a little more smoothly…"

At the captain's raised brow, the counselor's smile grows a little more teasing. "I think we both could use an Andorian ale, just now."

That smile, combined with that intonation could, coming from anyone else, be called flirtation. Surely… Captain Graves decides to focus on the upkeep of this _scenic mind_ with which the counselor credits him--surely, a high compliment from him--and smiles his agreement.

“Do you mind if I call on your replicator, counselor? I fear Andorian ale is not one of the items I’ve had smuggled into the cargo hold.”

The counselor nods. “Please do, captain.”

Captain Graves moves across the room to order their drinks. He carries the glasses back to the bed, where the counselor has shifted into a sitting position, the corners of his mouth still curved upwards. Graves increases the flow volume of the Janaran Falls when he is suddenly faced with the appealing intimacy of fetching a drink for the object of his affections and handing it to him as he lounges on the bed. If only, along with handing over the tall glass and its crystal blue contents, he could bestow a kiss on those smiling lips…

“Only in full flood would the falls be in such a state,” the counselor says lightly, and Graves nearly drops his glass, but the smile is still in place, and he feels his imagination has not caused irreparable damage.

“I’m still fairly new to such techniques, counselor. Please, be patient with me, as I endeavour to improve.”

The gaze which falls on him then as he once more sits on the edge of the bed is so soft, it’s hard to remember any part of Counselor Barbok is Vulcan. “Captain, may I tell you something I should possibly keep confined to my personal log?”

There is nothing at all Captain Graves can do about the way his heart begins to race at that moment. He clings to the calm images in his mind as fervently as he hopes the counselor does. “Please, do,” he says huskily. “I promise you complete confidentiality, counselor.”

Barbok nods. “I know I can trust you, captain.” When the man looks unspeakably pleased at this, he smiles. “You have been most solicitous and complimentary to me this day, and on many other occasions, and I wish to repay you in kind as you deserve.” He pauses for a moment, as if to find the exact right words, while Graves waits with bated breath. “I have the utmost admiration for the ways in which you show your concern for, and protectiveness of, the crew, sir. You are, without doubt, one of the best and most considerate men I have ever known, both within and outside of Starfleet.”

Captain Graves clings to his glass as if it was that which kept him tethered to the ship and from floating off into space. He takes a hurried sip, meeting the dark eyes over the rim, and only after a few more moments is he able to even attempt to form words, accompanied by the gentle waves of the Opal Sea of Betazed breaking against rocks within his mind.

“I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you, of all men, should think so well of me, counselor.” He knows, even as he speaks, that his voice is far from steady, but now that he has a clearer idea of how his most enigmatic crew member sees him, he has no fear of appearing weak before him. He is unaware the waters of the Opal Sea have receded fully until the counselor gently speaks.

“I have never, nor will I ever, think you weak, captain. Your kindness and compassion are your greatest strengths--as a leader and as a man.”

Captain Graves looks at the man before him, who appears more relaxed than he ever remembers seeing him, even after his spell earlier, and telling him things he can hardly believe he’s hearing. All he can think to do to keep from saying something completely inappropriately emotional is to take a deep gulp of his ale and visualise. Only then, once he trusts himself again, does he reply.

“I shall make it my mission, counselor, to always live up to your expectations of me.” He adds, after a moment, “And if I should ever stray, you and you alone are to be my moral compass and to set me back on the right path. Promise me that.”

Counselor Barbok looks amazed and… touched. “You will not need my help, captain, but I give you my promise.” He holds out his glass, and the captain clinks his against it.

At that moment, his communicator beeps, and he touches it. “Graves here.”

“Captain, the Andorians wish to talk, at your convenience.”

“Tell them I’ll be transporting back to the surface presently. Graves out.”

He smiles at the counselor, and receives a very pleased smile in return, and his only regret is that this new development means he needs to leave and attend to his duties.


	3. Chapter 3

_Counselor's Personal Log, Stardate 41162.1_

_I did not attend to this log immediately after Captain Graves left my quarters to return to the conference. At the time, I did not feel quite myself and assumed my equilibrium would be restored after a few hours. Maybe it would have been, had I not taken the captain’s suggestion to get some rest to heart._

_It’s not unusual for the captain to appear in my dreams. One might go as far as to say that to do so is yet another of his very regular habits. I’m almost inclined to think his protectiveness goes so far as to keep an eye on me even in my sleep._

_Over time, the nature of these dreams has changed. In the beginning, I often woke up from what felt like many hours of discussion of every subject imaginable, except that these discussions tended to take place in unlikely venues such as the arboretum, the mud pools of Vulcan, a deserted island on Earth, or some other ridiculously scenic location. I gave little thought to my mind’s habit of embellishing our dream conversations this way, until they became more personal and intimate._

_After I first woke up from a dream in which he touched me--gently and respectfully, of course--the nature of the dreams changed. There was less conversation and more comfortable silence, and his eyes began to linger on me with badly disguised longing as, I fear, mine did on him._

_I’m well aware that my unusual mixed heritage incites many to feel attracted to me--some for purely aesthetic reasons, some because they consider me_ mysterious, _but I’ve never truly reciprocated. My work has always been my main interest in life. Until now, that is._

_Captain Graves is an unusual man--predictable when it comes to his goodness, his concern for the crew, his courage and fairness. He is even predictably handsome and dashing, as one might almost expect of a heroic adventurer._

_He is quite unpredictable, however, in other ways, such as in just how far he is willing to go to bend the rules for those under his command, or those in need anywhere at any time. He is sometimes a master at shielding his inner workings, even from me, and sometimes fails utterly. He can be perfectly professional one moment, and entirely out of his depth the next though, admittedly, I’ve only observed that particular change in his behaviour with me. Perhaps it is that which endears him so to me. Yet I find myself wishing more and more that he should be less cautious at “subjecting” me to his feelings._

_After he left my quarters to beam back down to Andoria, I settled into a peaceful sleep, still feeling amused and rather touched by his endeavour to conjure up relaxing scenes inside his mind in order to calm me. I was impressed by his progress in shielding his thoughts, and especially his feelings, from me. Which is not to say he entirely succeeded._

_My dream began innocently enough, with us walking along the shores of the Opal Sea. Strangely, I was walking on bare feet, with the fine silver sand shifting and glistening under each step I took and sparkling between my toes like delicate jewels. Captain Graves could not take his eyes off the rare display of bare skin. Then I became aware that I had somehow changed from my normal clothing to a diaphanous robe, which glittered as silvery as the beach itself. In the dream, I failed to feel any of the embarrassment such unprofessional attire would induce in me during my waking hours. In fact, when the captain’s eyes were drawn inexorably upwards along my entire body--barely concealed by the sheer flow of fabric--and finally rested on my face with an expression of pure desire, I felt truly exhilarated._

_He thought about… well, he thought such things as he would never allow to be sensed by me, but would disguise behind every mental shield he could erect. There was no shield in the dream, and even my dream self stopped and turned away to face the sea, quivering with needs and longings I had never felt and half ashamed that he should see._

_His hands cupped my shoulders from behind, and he leaned close to speak in my ear. He told me things which filled me with pride and made me flush with heat. And then he begged my permission to touch my skin, and I nodded._

_He brushed the gossamer robe off my shoulders and it poured down into the sand like a thin stream of water. There was no sound. No sound at all, except for the waves, his rapid breaths as he looked at me, his warm exhalations against my neck. And his hands… his wonderful, careful hands… tenderly held back my hair as he turned me towards himself, leaned closer and closer, and his lips…_

_I woke up then, with a start, breathing quickly and shamefully aroused._

***

Captain Graves’ meditation time on the holodeck is easily the calmest and most restorative part of his day. At least, on most occasions. 

After the first handful of visits, he had done away with his virtual instructor, preferring the simple silence of his tropical surroundings to the company of the Tibetan monk who normally attends the program. 

Alone, he can listen to the chirping of a distant bird, or the slow, musical movement of the stream as it flows into the nearby pool. He can clear his mind of all distractions, legs crossed and posture both straight and fully at ease in his perch among the rocks. None of his worries or responsibilities can find him here. He reminds himself of this again and again. 

But it's neither worry nor anything so severe as the responsibility of a ship's captain that has joined him on the holodeck this day. A vision of Counselor Barbok's hair spread over indigo satin, both dark and smooth as liquid, fills his mind once more and he groans. 

His eyes flick open, and he glances around the forest clearing helplessly, as though there might be some answer or relief to be found half-hidden in the lush foliage. And he realises, in a moment of vulnerable honesty: he comes here everyday as much to free himself of his painful _wanting_ as he does to train his mind into something safe and inviting. 

And Counselor Barbok sits there at the heart of his struggle, as perfect and forbidden as a Rigelian flamegem. Anywhere he turns, either within himself or out, there he is, and Captain Graves is seized with a moment of what he shamefully recognises as panic. He's never felt a desire for someone else so badly; it's enough to stop his breath and bring sudden tears stinging at his eyes, as surely as the blood that even now floods his aching manhood. 

For possibly the first time in his life, he just doesn't know what to _do_. 

At a loss, and knowing that at least _this_ day he won't be getting anywhere in his attempts to still his emotions, he stands on the sun-warmed rocks and shakes himself. Reaching with a resigned sigh, he grips the hem of his white linen tunic and pulls it up over his head, briskly and without preamble. He's alone here, and the program is entirely private. If he can't find peace here, at least he may find some relief in the cool waters of the softly rippling pool. That, and the forgiving caress of his own trembling palm--but if he gives into _that_ temptation, the memory of it will need to be locked away from the reach of Barbok's keen mind with more vigilance than a classified Federation log. 

Once he sinks into the turquoise water, it’s no longer a question of ‘if’. The very contrast of the water to his flushed skin and heated thoughts reminds him of cool silk flowing over a body whose every curve and dip and flat plane he can imagine all too vividly. He lets his head sink back against the grassy edge of the pool, his toes finding the outline of the sunken bench opposite and supporting him as he spreads his legs.

His hand closes around his shaft which, he’s sure, is harder than anyone has ever managed to become during a meditation session. With a whispered instruction to the holodeck computer, his touch becomes smooth and slippery under the water, and he tries to think of a generic, soft, warm mouth taking him in, but it’s no use. He knows the exact outline of the lips he craves, their colour like warm blood, the way the cheeks would hollow and those fathomless eyes gaze up at him full of longing.

He’s almost startled by the ease and vividness with which he can imagine all of this. He keeps his eyes firmly closed, but his mind plays out the encounter like a perfect, pristine holo program being written even as he experiences it.

And then, somehow, the program seems to change without his conscious decision, and… oh god, it’s even better. He feels as if the entire perfect, delicate shape of the counselor is pressed against him, those lips whispering words he can’t make out, the other’s weight gently resting on his lap.

His hands reach out and his eyes fly open, but he is alone. _Of course_ he is and, for a moment, he’s stunned by how sure he had been the man was somehow _there_. He sighs, chides himself for a fool, and runs his wet hands back through his hair to refresh himself. It does nothing to cool his ardour and, soon enough, his eyes close again and his hand returns to its previous task.

Again, the sense of Counselor Barbok’s _presence_ fires his imagination, and the sensations of lips on his neck and long fingers in his hair feels real enough to make him moan. When the weight on him seems to shift, he arches up, certain he can all but feel the press of firm thighs against his own as the phantom body above him moves back and forth.

Then, for a moment, it’s as if another hand joins his own, and he gasps at the fantasy, imagining himself sliding, with a low groan and the unexpected but very welcome aid, into the body he worships. His breaths come fast then, and his hand moves even faster, the mere idea of this scenario ever becoming reality driving him rapidly to the edge.

“Credence…” The name falls from his lips without conscious intent, and he could _swear_ he hears his own echoed back at him. It’s too much, and with an almost pained cry, he comes hard, continuing to stroke himself until he goes limp and the sense of the other presence fades.

***

_Counselor’s Personal Log, Stardate 41162.1 - Addendum_

_I’ve just experienced a most unusual and worrying phenomenon. While dealing with the physical aftereffects of my latest dream of Captain Graves, in a manner I rarely find myself employing, I’ve struggled to maintain the impenetrable mental shield which comes easily to me at all times._

_I’m at a loss to explain this, but I’m forced to conclude that my sudden lack of self-control has been brought about by my exceptionally… intense reaction to my dream, which was in itself unexpected. At this point, I dare not speculate about the cause of my sudden instability._

_I’ve decided that the high intensity meditation program designed by Ambassador Spock is my best course of action and, as I am still off duty, I shall visit the holodeck now._

***

Of all the possible fellow crew members with whom to share a turbolift on his way back to his quarters, Captain Graves would not have wished for Counselor Barbok’s company. At any other time, yes, and enthusiastically so, but right then, physically relaxed but mentally in an uproar… decidedly _no_.

“Counselor...” he croaks, when the lift doors slide open to reveal the unusually flushed man.

Counselor Barbok’s eyes widen and, for a few moments, they stare at each other in equal bewilderment. “Ca-captain!” His eyes drop and fix on the captain’s neck and upper chest, of which rather more than usual is revealed in his soft white linen meditation tunic, and he swallows visibly.

Captain Graves somehow manages to conjure up a positive bevy of rainbows spanning the Opal Sea, but it’s a struggle to maintain the visualisation at the nearly… dishevelled sight of the counselor. “Are you… well? And… uh, going… somewhere?” he stammers out, as nervous and out of his depth as a first year cadet.

“Yes, perfectly well, captain.” The counselor hesitates for a moment, then enters the lift and instructs it with, “Holodeck 2.”

The doors close in front of them, and the tension in the enclosed space instantly seems to rise.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to relax, counselor. After yesterday.” The captain’s fingers tighten on the damp towel in his hand.

“Relax?” The counselor looks almost guilty at that. “What do you mean, captain?” He flushes further.

The sight of the pink cheeks and almost feverish eyes--even if they seem undecided whether to meet his, drop to his neck, or examine the turbolift walls--is almost more than Captain Graves can take, especially after his unusual… experience on the holodeck. An experience he absolutely cannot think about right now. He’s tempted to think about how the counselor’s scent is somehow different, even more intoxicating than usual, but that would be an equally bad idea.

Counselor Barbok is still waiting for an answer, Graves realises. “I mean the holodeck. I assume you’re going there to relax.”

“Oh.” The counselor’s rigid shoulders seem to sag at that. “Yes, I am. And you, sir?” His eyes are trained on the captain’s hand clutching the towel in a death grip.

“Yes, absolutely. I was just… uh… I was… meditating. On the holodeck.”

“You were?” The counselor blinks at him in surprise. “Captain, where were you going in the turbolift?”

‘That’s an excellent question,’ Captain Graves thinks, wishing he had an answer which does not make him look like a distracted fool heading back exactly the way he came. “My quarters,” he says sheepishly.

Counselor Barbok only gives him a long look, seeming almost as though on the verge of saying something of great importance before he finally speaks to ask, "Captain, are _you_ well?" His eyes return briefly to the towel in the captain's hand and back to his face again. "It's only that you seem unexpectedly tense for having just been meditating. Has… something unusual happened? Something troubling?" 

Barbok begins to shift ever so slightly towards him, giving Captain Graves the sudden sense that he might try to reach out to him in a gesture of nurturing concern-- something he's never imagined seeing from the man any time before. In fact, he's almost certain of it… he doesn't know how he's so sure, but the counselor _wants_ to touch him just now. Or perhaps that's only his own wishful thinking.

A fleeting impression of the way the man's phantom form had pressed so warmly against him in the holodeck flickers through his mind and the captain seizes instantly on the image of an icy rock face to block it out as quickly as it came. This was the last thing he wanted, for Counselor Barbok to intuit even the slightest sign of how he'd pleasured himself only moments ago to thoughts of the man, shamelessly moaning his name… 

He turns his face away and steps slightly back, out of the counselor's easy reach. All that's left to him is to smile in the most congenial way he can manage. To smile, and even more shamefully, to _lie._

"I'm in no need of counsel, if that's your concern," he says lightly. "I simply thought I might have left something behind on the holodeck but now I realize I was mistaken." 

The counselor tilts his head and regards the captain with the shadow of a frown-- another rare sight, bordering on out of character for the usually tightly composed man. Captain Graves curses himself for troubling Barbok, at the same time wondering just what's gotten _into_ him. It occurs to him then with a start that it's likely his own turbulence that has the poor counselor at odds with himself, and he doubles down on the self-recrimination. He needs to get out of here, away from him. 

"Captain, I-- " Counselor Barbok is starting to speak, but just then the turbolift doors whoosh softly open and the holodeck is only a few paces away. Captain Graves turns to him only to see that the counselor looks… faintly disappointed, as though his expectations have been thwarted when this was exactly the destination he should've been anticipating all along. 

The captain gives him a reassuring grin, certain that if he has to spend even one more second in the man's presence, he'll lose the fight and sweep him straight into his arms. Kiss that strange perplexity breathlessly away. Not having the freedom to touch Counselor Barbok _hurts_ physically in a way he's never imagined he might be susceptible to, and the memory of that invisible weight in his embrace has only shown him just how deep the feeling goes. His throat threatens to close up and he won't be able to hide this much longer, he knows. 

He only sweeps his hand towards the door and nods his head towards it for emphasis. "Enjoy your time on the holodeck," he offers cheerfully. 

***

_Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 41162.2_

_I'm in love with Counselor Barbok. If I can't ever say it aloud then let me record it here. I'm in love with him, desperately, and I have no notion or hope of any comfortable resolution. To say I was 'in peril' was a kind and terribly naive choice of words. Here I'll call it agony._


	4. Chapter 4

_Counselor's Personal Log, Stardate 41165.6_

_Over the past several days, I have made an assessment of various factors and come to what I believe is a very important decision._

_I was last alone with Captain Graves only briefly, in the turbolift, where I noted his behaviour to be strange and especially guarded. Taking into consideration the unusually close nature of our interactions the previous evening, I've come to the conclusion that the Captain fears overwhelming me. It is the only explanation in keeping with his… I would have to call it almost painfully noble character. A continuation of his carefulness around me, which suggests he is concerned that the content of his thoughts may be somehow offensive._

_Since then, he hasn't made his nightly appearance in Ten Forward, and yet despite the fact that I haven't been near him, my dreams of him persist. They persist, and what's more, their erotic nature has increased each time, until I find myself restless and deeply unsettled in a way that I recognise only as the state which heralds the arrival of pon farr. I have checked the dates thoroughly, and although it would be considered early by at least one month, the signs are unmistakable._

_If I am correct, and I am certain I must be, I have at best one more full 24 hour cycle before I enter pon farr fully. Add to this the confession I will only make here in my private log: I have been increasingly discontent with the recent separation from the captain._

_It is my belief and understanding that he and I have bonded empathically, and while he is--objectively speaking--a most suitable partner for the season I am about to enter, I must admit… that I genuinely desire him, regardless of any oncoming biological imperative._

_Nothing like this has happened to me before, and while I've made the firm decision to ask that he accompany me through the duration of my pon farr, I find the prospect of his possible refusal quite disturbing. If my request is not taken favourably, it may be necessary for me to transfer posts, as the last thing I intend is to cause him discomfort._

***

Captain Graves has been avoiding the counselor like the Terrellian plague. It's shameful and cowardly and unbecoming of a Starfleet officer-- and it's also the only thing he can think of. 

Furthermore, it isn't helping anything. If he had hoped the space between them might make life easier (and he _had_ hoped this, fervently), all it's done is to make him even more miserable than he was before. He craves the counselor like air, feeling the lack of his presence like a sudden loss of gravity: jarring and indicative of something deeply wrong. 

All of this frustrates him to no end, considering how briefly he's even _known_ Counselor Barbok. It feels as though he's known the man all his life, or if not, at least some secret, hidden part of him has-- pining quietly to fully reunite with his missing other half since birth. He groans aloud in the privacy of his ready room, glaring at the screen before him, close to disgusted with the melodramatic nature of his own thoughts. 

He keeps returning to that experience on the holodeck, both in his mind and in reality, chasing the faint hope that whatever miracle transpired there might repeat itself. Clearly, this has only made his situation more difficult, nurturing nothing but futility; he resolves then and there to discontinue the habit immediately, when the chime sounds at his door.

"Come in." 

The door slides open with the usual gentle swish, and Counselor Barbok steps in. 

Instantly, the captain is on his feet, clearing his throat and smoothing at the creases in his uniform which aren't even there. “Counselor,” he says, and the word leaves his lips with an intonation usually reserved for _Help!_

“May I speak with you, captain?” The counselor’s voice is unusually hesitant.

Captain Graves doesn’t blame him. It would take a man significantly less observant than Counselor Barbok not to have noticed his odd and remote behaviour lately. One thing he wishes to risk even less than to overwhelm the man with his feelings is to make him feel slighted by his captain.

“Of course, counselor. Please, take a seat.”

Nodding, the man glides to the seat across from the captain. He moves as carefully and elegantly as ever, but there’s a new tension to his posture combined with a strangely resolute expression. His eyes, however, have acquired a new… sheen, almost, making them look rather like polished onyx.

Quite prepared to assume their harrowing separation of several days is the cause for this illusion, Captain Graves takes a deep breath and concentrates on a blank rock face.

“That is not necessary, captain,” the counselor says, surprisingly.

“Pardon me?”

An almost sad smile tugs at the beautiful lips. “Please, don’t shield your thoughts, or emotions, from me.”

“I must.” Captain Graves lowers his eyes. So, it’s as he has feared. He suspects the counselor is here to inform him of his resignation and to request a new posting. The mere idea threatens to shatter him, just as it’s shattering the rock face in his mind, and he’s unaware the man across from his desk has risen again and walked around his desk until he feels a light touch on his shoulder. He looks up with a start.

Counselor Barbok is standing immediately beside him, as closely as that day he helped him to his quarters. Yet now, it feels even closer, for the man appears well, is smiling gently, and touching him for no reason other than… why is he touching him?

“Because you’re in need of comfort, captain.”

“I’m _so sorry_,” Graves whispers. “I never meant for you to--” He rises, ready to beg forgiveness on his knees.

Slender fingers are placed over his lips, silencing him as effectively as the sheer surprise to feel them there. “Please, let me speak first, sir. I have an unusual request to make.”

“You wish to be reassigned,” Captain Graves blurts out in his pain.

“Not unless it is necessary, sir.”

At that moment, Graves is ready to offer up his career, his ship, his… soul, in exchange for a way to keep his feelings hidden from the counselor once more.

“I fear it may be too late for that, captain.” The counselor’s voice is trembling, and Graves could swear he sees a similar pain to his own reflected in his eyes. “You see, I fear I may have initiated an empathic bond between us.”

Graves blinks at the man, whose hand still rests on his shoulder. “You... have?” He swallows. “May I ask...”

“Not intentionally,” the counselor says quickly.

“Oh.” Graves lowers his eyes. Then he recalls something. “Counselor, what is your request?”

A soft blush infuses the high cheekbones. “Do you… are you aware of the... ancient urges of my people?” The dark eyes dart away, fixing on Captain Graves’ desk.

“Which people?” Graves asks, “Beta-- Oh.” His eyes widen. “_Oh!_”

The black eyes fix on his then. “I see you know what I’m referring to.”

“I believe so.” Graves’ face falls. “You need me to divert the ship to Vulcan, so you can… mate with one of your people?”

To his confusion, Barbok shakes his head. “I’m asking you, captain.” When there’s no reaction, he clarifies the statement, “I’m asking _you_ to aid me through my pon farr. It is my first, and I--”

“First…” Captain Graves whispers, stunned.

“I trust you, captain, and you’re the most… suitable candidate.”

Until the last words, Graves’ face had slowly been regaining colour. Somewhat more than the usual amount of colour, even. At the words ‘suitable candidate,’ however, he cannot stop himself from feeling utterly dejected. So much so, even to remain standing seems suddenly too much effort, and he sinks back down into his seat.

“I’m sorry, counselor. I can’t help you.”

It’s Counselor Barbok’s turn to look dejected. “Oh. I thought you… I apologise, captain.” He frowns, takes a few steps away, then returns. “I could not have misunderstood your feelings, captain, all this time, and with this bond…" He rubs his forehead as if it hurts. “I must assume you’ve misunderstood me.”

Captain Graves looks at him sadly. “Counselor, may I be quite frank with you?”

“Please, captain.”

“I cannot mate with you simply because I am… here, and… suitable.” His voice cracks, and Counselor Barbok’s eyes widen in horror. Graves finishes with, “My feelings for you run much, much too deep for that.”

“Captain…” The counselor approaches again, looking downright distraught.

The sight is unexpected enough to make the captain wonder whether he’s just said the worst, or best, possible words he could have chosen.

“Captain, I’m not used to expressing my own feelings, let alone verbally. Please, forgive me if I’ve been too… Vulcan.” He looks at the captain pleadingly. “Will you mind meld with me? I would like to… show you.”

There is only one possible response to that. “Yes, counselor. What do you want me to do?”

Looking relieved, Counselor Barbok moves close again. Very close. Captain Graves parts his knees to allow him to stand immediately in front of him. “Just remain seated. Try to relax.”

The proximity of the man... the impending glimpse into _his_ emotions… Graves thinks trying to relax may be beyond him, but he does his best.

The counselor takes a few deep breaths, then places the fingertips of both hands on Captain Graves’ face--at the corners of his mouth, on his cheeks, above his brows. His eyes fix, unblinking, on Captain Graves’ eyes as he begins to speak.

“My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.”

The intensity of his gaze is too much, and Captain Graves closes his eyes with a soft moan when images and sensations begin to flood his own mind:

_The counselor’s arrival onboard comes with pride and attraction as they are introduced... their meetings are accompanied by a sense of understanding and companionship... their evenings in Ten Forward bring relaxation and comfort... the time in the counselor’s quarters after Andoria shows feelings of gratitude and a sweet and sincere affection for Graves’ bumbling protectiveness… then there are vague images he recognises as dreams, and they are… gentle at first, tender… intimate, then… erotic. He recognises, with a jolt of arousal, the image of the counselor pleasuring himself in his quarters to thoughts of the captain underneath him, thrusting up into him and speaking his name, then… more dreams, each more arousing than the one before, more… wild, and finally… the counselor waking with his name on his lips and another word he doesn’t know…_

Gasping, Graves returns to the present with a small jolt when the fingers leave the surface of his skin. “What was that word you said, at the end?” he whispers breathlessly.

“Imzadi,” the counselor says, his own voice husky and very much affected. He touches the captain’s face again, just lightly now, caressing his cheekbone with a soft, gentle look in his eyes. “It means ‘beloved’.”

Standing on shaky legs, covering the hand on his face to ensure it is not removed, Captain Graves lets his eyes move over the counselor’s flushed face, knowing he himself must be an absolutely pitiful sight. A soft, brief laugh makes him smile. He lifts the counselor’s other hand, then attempts to copy something he has seen a Vulcan couple do at a Starfleet function. He uses his index and middle fingers only to caress along the insides of the counselor’s index and middle fingers, sliding his joined fingers up and over his, then down the other side.

With a sweet smile, the counselor copies the motion, tracking it with his eyes.

“Imzadi,” Captain Graves murmurs, gazing at his face adoringly. He never could have imagined that simply touching fingers had the power to be so electric, and suddenly it strikes him all at once like a phaser set to stun: how much more potent will it be to _make love_ to the counselor? The very idea that he will be doing such a thing, and _soon_, has his pulse racing with nearly alarming force. He believes he might be willing to risk all-out war simply for a single kiss, and here he's been asked to join Barbok through the duration of an entire pon farr. Asked out of desire and genuine affection.

The counselor continues to trace over his fingers rhythmically, staring into his eyes as though on the verge of becoming hypnotised. His breath hitches, and the captain realises he hasn't been troubling at all to guard the intensity of his own thoughts and feelings from the man. A sliver of concern that it may still be too much enters his mind, and is quickly swept away by the sound of the counselor whispering "_please_…" 

"Anything, Imzadi," he breathes.

The counselor tilts his face upwards even as his eyes grow heavy-lidded. In all their recreational imbibing, Captain Graves has never seen the man drunk, but he could nearly swear that's what he's seeing now. "War isn't necessary…" the counselor murmurs back and for a second, the captain fails to understand, unused to having his silent thoughts so easily read. 

"I'm sorry?" he begins, just as Barbok shivers out a tremulous moan, however soft. 

"What you were thinking… " the counselor says, "captain, I want what _you_ want, I offer it freely…. " 

Realisation dawns and Captain Graves knows it would take a war to stop him. Without another word, he pulls the counselor into his arms the way he's longed to and presses his mouth against the gently parted crimson lips with a fierce hunger. Counselor Barbok clings to his trembling shoulders and moans into the kiss, the sound eradicating any lingering shred of doubt that this is anything less than a passion absolutely shared. 

He gasps against the counselor's panting mouth. "I've heard you make that sound a million times in my dreams," he confesses, voice ragged. 

"And as many times, I've woken from dreams of you with that very sound on my lips," the counselor answers, already seeking his mouth again even as he speaks the words. Captain Graves feels the man's tongue slide against the seam of his lips, begging entrance, and he groans just as eagerly as he allows it. Counselor Barbok nips at his lower lip--almost roughly--and the captain is amazed to think that the pon farr is only just on the brink of arrival, rather than already in its fullest heat. 

In answer to his thoughts, the counselor pulls back and looks into his face with eyes that have grown somehow darker than seems possible, as though the light itself could disappear into their depths. "I…" he begins breathlessly, "I believe my pon farr is… imminent. I had thought a day at least, but now…" 

A shiver runs through him hard and Captain Graves clutches him close to deliver a trail of soft, adoring kisses along the length of his pale throat. "Oh, _Credence_… Imzadi, my love… let me help you, I'll take care--" 

The sound of his communicator badge chirping just then is the most hated noise he's ever heard.

"Captain, your presence is urgently requested in engineering." 

It takes a few long seconds for either of them to acknowledge the call, as though the situation might somehow mercifully resolve itself. Finally, it is Counselor Barbok who shows the required strength of will. 

"You must answer them," he sighs against the captain's heated neck. Captain Graves promptly groans and taps the badge at his chest, never once taking his eyes off the counselor. 

Once he's given his promise to be there shortly, he says to Barbok, "I fear my duty to you may be far more urgent, but I'll see what it is they need and deal with it as swiftly as I can."

“I will wait for you,” the counselor says, then negates the statement by nuzzling against the captain’s cheek.

Making a sound of pure need, Graves holds his upper arms and keeps him a minimal distance away. “In your quarters? In mine? Tell me where, my darling, and I will be there as soon as possible.”

“Holodeck 3,” is the answer, to his surprise. “We will need it for… some time, and it is less frequently used and can be taken for days. There is a program of the Opal Sea on Betazed.”

“Yes,” the captain agrees. “Anywhere you want. I will arrange… everything else. Can you wait there for me?” His eyes widen, and his heart rate picks up the pace even more. “_Days?_” he croaks.

“I’ll go right away,” the counselor tells him, smiling teasingly.

“Oh god. Yes, go first. If we use the turbolift together, I fear I’ll never make it to engineering.”

He receives another kiss and, moments later, the counselor has swept from his ready room. He himself steps out onto the bridge.

“Commander McDonald, you have the bridge. How far are we from the nearest starbase?”

“Approximately five hours at warp 6, captain.”

“Good. Lay in a course. Warp 9, pending the problem in engineering. I need to request emergency leave, and the ship could use a few repairs.”

“Aye, sir.” The unflappable Scot takes the captain’s chair. “Ensign, set a course for Starbase 12.”

***

Captain Graves makes it to engineering, where he’s greeted by the chief engineer and the current officer exchange crew member recently arrived from the Enterprise.

“Commander Senik, Lieutenant Barclay, what’s the problem?” He looks at the mangled, shapeless rock in the chief engineer’s hands.

“The dilithium chamber, sir. Several dilithium crystals have become fused, and all attempts to re-amplify them have failed. Our supply of usable crystals is quickly depleting.” The chief engineer looks to Barclay. “Lieutenant Barclay has a few ideas but, in case they fail, we’ll lose the use of the warp engines soon.”

“How soon?” the captain asks, with barely suppressed panic.

“Uh… two days, Captain Graves,” Barclay says.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Graves asks, “Will travelling speed affect that time frame?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Excellent. We’re on course for Starbase 12 at warp 9. You’ll be able to do whatever has to be done very shortly.” To himself, he thinks, ‘And the same goes for me.’

“Thank you, captain. May I ask why--”

“I’m taking emergency leave. Better to do it with the ship moored.”

“Ca-captain Graves, do you have time for me to… to discuss my ideas for re-amplification with you?” Barclay wants to know.

“Only if it will take no longer than my trip to sickbay, lieutenant.” Captain Graves is already leaving engineering and heading into the nearest turbolift, Reginald Barclay hot on his heels.

“Sickbay,” he tells the computer, and to Barclay, “Go on then.”

Barclay does, in his usual stammer, though his basic ideas come across and make sense.

By the time they reach the sickbay doors, Captain Graves, taking long strides, tells him, “Lieutenant, Commander Senik tells me you’re a real asset to engineering, and I believe we have your creative thinking to thank for getting us out of a scrape or two. I have every faith in you to deal with those crystals.”

“You do?” Barclay asks, beaming, “sir,” he quickly adds.

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you, Captain Graves, sir!”

They enter sickbay together, and the chief medical officer turns to them. “Again, Lieutenant Barclay? What is it this time?”

“Oh, nothing! Nothing at all, Doctor Snape. I was just--” He waves his hands about, gives Graves another big, grateful grin, and staggers out.

“Good grief.” It’s only then that the significance of the captain turning up in sickbay, without needing multiple stern demands to do so, sinks in. “Captain, you’re not due for your physical for--”

“Never mind that. I need medical advice.” Graves flushes. “For a friend.”

“Of course.” Doctor Snape, raising a skeptical eyebrow, assesses him with undisguised amusement.

The captain looks around, relieved to find the place empty. “How would one deal with pon farr?” he blurts out.

The brow disappears behind a dark strand of hair flopping over Snape’s forehead. “Quickly,” he says.

“I _know_ that much. What I mean is: are there ways to make it less… harrowing, I suppose, to the… um, sufferer?”

“Mating will do that, if there is a suitable mate available.”

“There is,” Graves states, unable to stop the flush reaching up well past his hairline.

Snape does not comment, beyond a quickly fought down quirk of his lips. “I take it this is a first pon farr?”

“Yes.”

“Counselor Barbok then.”

Graves stares at him as if he’s suddenly turned into a tribble. “How--”

“Youngest Vulcan… well, part-Vulcan, onboard.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

Snape walks to a locked cabinet and retrieves an armful of items, returns some to the cabinet after a moment’s examination, then hands three containers to the captain. 

“What are these?”

“Two lubricants of different textures, one healing salve.”

“That’s it?” Captain Graves asks in astonishment. “That’s all you can give me?”

Snape snorts. “Short of sex education lessons, yes.”

Graves’ jaw drops. He looks at the jars. “Why the healing salve?”

“For scratches, bites, and possible anal fissures from excessive, intense, and repeated--”

“All right. Never mind. I understand.” 

"Actually," Snape raises his brows thoughtfully, "there _is_ one other thing…" He returns to the cabinet and removes one final item. When he places it in the captain's palm, they both glance down at it as though expecting it to speak. A soft, rounded ring of indeterminate material, pale grey and faintly winking every few seconds with a row of embedded lights. 

"And what is this?" The captain asks. 

Doctor Snape allows himself to smirk, the only crew member brave enough to do so essentially at the captain's _expense_. "During a pon farr, Vulcans require…. _many_ instances of satisfactory release. Due to differing biology, a human partner may find it somewhat taxing to try and match them. This device, when worn in the _obvious_ place, will allow a human male continuous performance until it is removed." 

Graves begins to head out into the corridor, face beet red.

“Captain?” Snape calls after him, and he turns back. “The duration of the pon farr varies from case to case, but I recommend you and the counselor take leave until further notice. Believe me, you do not want to be disturbed.”

“We’re heading for the nearest starbase, and I intend to do just that.”

Snape nods approvingly. “If you wish, I will arrange the details for you both, discreetly, with Starfleet command. This falls under the heading of medical emergencies which take precedence over all else.”

“I would appreciate that, doctor. Thank you.”

Snape nods, then smirks, nodding to the jars in Graves’ hands. “And I believe Commander Barbok will appreciate it if you _hurry_.” He laughs, because at the mere name of his about-to-be mate, the captain has already vanished from sickbay.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to this [Sea Cave with Campfire Ambience](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdUQ-fI0xok) \- it's the perfect aural backdrop for this chapter and the next.

The first thing, perhaps, that _should_ have captured Captain Graves' attention as he enters holodeck 3 is the gorgeous view of the Opal Sea. Or even the fragrant salty spray of the breeze that caresses his face and fills his lungs after the climate-controlled blandness of the USS Obscurus. 

Instead, what captivates him entirely is the sight of Counselor Barbok, his own _Imzadi_… waiting tensely on the rocks at the edge of a shadowy seaside cave. The man's eyes are trained on the door, clearly in avid anticipation of the captain's arrival, his hands clenched over the curve of his knees beneath his blue robes. A glimmer of warm firelight flickers from out of the cave behind him, and Captain Graves has never seen anything more beautiful. As he told the counselor truthfully, he's never visited the Opal Sea, but right now, here on the holodeck with his Imzadi, this place is _home_.

"Captain," the counselor whimpers as he quickly rises, and Captain Graves is already striding across the sand towards his outstretched arms. 

"_Percival_," he corrects huskily, only seconds before they are finally joined again, clinging to one another as if drowning on land with the ocean only feet away. Credence moans brokenly into their kiss, his mouth warm and open to Percival's fierce plundering. With the man's soft, red lips parted against his and the mouth of the open cave only paces away, inviting… the captain realises possibly for the first time, fully, that he will be _inside_ him within moments. The groan he lets free is more of a growl, something hungry and desperate. 

"_Yes, yes_… " Credence is softly chanting in between biting kisses, and Percival understands there is no need for words anymore. They are connected: his lover _feels_ what he feels, _knows_ what he knows. For a brief flash, he wonders to himself how anyone manages to love any other way than _this_. 

Neither of them are in any state to wait much longer. Percival lifts Credence up into his arms, carrying him bridal-style towards the cave as the counselor showers soft kisses against the side of his face and neck. Once inside, he sees that Credence has already prepared the space by laying an assortment of cushions and silken blankets just far enough outside the fire's full heat. 

He drops his satchel to the ground next to the spot and carefully lays Credence out against the dark, shimmering silk. Instantly, the counselor sits up, reaching furtively for the fastenings of Percival's uniform. Frowning, he makes a small noise of frustration when the fabric fails to obey his shaking hands at _once_, and Percival can't help but laugh softly at this side of his Imzadi that he never imagined he would see.

"I want to see you, to feel you," Credence pleads, and his eyes are so wide and dark, so full of painful hunger that Percival doesn't have the heart to withhold him anything he asks. He stills the counselor's hands, finishing what little progress he'd made with the fastenings to push the uniform hastily down around his waist.

At the sight of him, bare-chested in the firelight, Credence lets out a low growl of pure need that fills the captain with a swell of astonished pride. His lover takes no time to simply admire; already he's climbing into Percival's lap, lapping and biting softly at every inch of exposed skin he can touch.

For a long moment, Percival only leans back, panting under the counselor's explorations, succumbing happily to the feverish assault. When a warm, wet mouth clamps over one peaked nipple and gently sucks, he groans, briefly considering the need to fit himself with Snape's ingenious ring sooner rather than later.

Credence raises his face then as though Percival had spoken aloud, spots of colour high in his cheeks visible even in the firelight. Holding the captain's gaze, he lays back again wordlessly, chest rising and falling with his rapid breaths. They don't speak, only gaze into each other's eyes, touching softly--but every breath and gesture Credence makes is a silent plea; Percival has never been this connected, to anyone or anything.

The counselor's fine robes slide easily from his shoulders, slowly revealing his pale, creamy skin like polished gold in the flickering light. Percival realises then that the soft fabric accommodates his touch so well due to Credence's having already undone most of the robe's inner ties in preparation for him. "Oh, _sweetheart_," he murmurs, moved both by the knowledge of how badly Credence truly wants him, and by the sight of the slender form being steadily revealed under his gaze.

He trails his fingertips reverently from the fine collarbone down to the counselor's soft and trembling stomach. Credence sighs, arching to meet his touch, swallowing thickly. There's something stark and utterly vulnerable in the sheen of his eyes when they meet Percival's again, and he tries to speak. "I… I've… "

"What is it, love?" The captain asks in a whisper. "You're safe with me now." 

"I've never… " he begins again but doesn't finish. 

Understanding dawns on Percival's face and it looks very much like awe. "With no one?" he asks. 

Credence shakes his head slowly, the blush of his cheeks warming its way down into his upper chest. In that moment, the captain is speechless, with the honour of it as much as the arousal. This time he gives the emotion free reign, willing his Imzadi to feel it and to _know_\--how much he is cherished, how fervently he's wanted. 

Percival understands his ardor has been read clearly when Credence moans almost painfully, arching up against his palms. The act of simply touching skin to skin strikes the captain then as nothing less than profound. Sacred.

"You have my word, _Imzadi_," he says, "you have my word I'm going to make you feel _so good_. I'm yours to take of, all of me, here for your pleasure alone." 

"Oh, _please!_" This time, Credence says the words aloud with a full cry, trembling with his need under the press of Percival's lips. He trails kisses along the downy hair below the counselor's navel, parting the folds of his robes all the way until his flushed and glistening erection is laid bare and straining. The counselor is painfully hard, and at the touch of nothing more than Percival's breath he croons out a low moan and clutches at the silken bedding with both fists.

The captain presses a kiss to the rosy, glistening head, tasting the unfamiliar bitter sweetness that something in him still instantly recognises as _Credence_. Eager for the taste again, he wraps a hand around the base and licks once against the counselor's frenulum, then slowly traces the plump split curve there beneath the tip of his tongue. 

Credence shudders, gasping and twisting in place. His legs lift a little higher reflexively at either side of Percival, toes gone rigid and pointing to the ground-- and then he spills, the first few spurts reaching high up over his chest before Percival seals his mouth on him once more to drink him gratefully down.

The relief appears to last only for a few moments, and the shaft in Percival’s hand barely softens at all. Moaning pitifully, Credence thrashes from side to side. His skin is flushed from more than the firelight, Percival realises.

“Blood… fever...” he gasps out. He’s reaching for Percival’s shoulders, pulling him up with unexpected strength to kiss him.

Percival can feel the heat of his skin, the flush like fire against his own face. Sensing, no… _knowing_ what Credence needs, he kisses him hard, his tongue thrusting into his mouth, his hands burying themselves in his long hair.

Groaning, Credence rolls them sideways, hands roaming aimlessly over Percival’s skin. When he tears his mouth away, it’s to fasten it to Percival’s neck. He presses firm, wet, sucking kisses all over it and, when it makes Percival groan, he scrapes his teeth gently over the skin, then licks along the same trail.

“Credence…” Percival’s voice is trembling. He clutches a handful of wavy hair and reaches around the body pressing him into smooth silk. He strokes the sweat damp skin of Credence’s lower back and lets him know it’s okay… whatever he needs, however _hard_… it’s _wanted_.

Whimpering, Credence alternately bites, then wetly soothes, his skin from his chin down over his chest, rubbing his fever hot cheeks and brow against Percival desperately. He feels so hot, Percival thinks--in so far as he’s able to--that _he_ must feel like ice to Credence. He strokes his hair soothingly, petting the crown of the dark head, while Credence struggles with his uniform, pulling the fabric over his hips, pushing it impatiently down his legs, along with his boots and socks, with a strangely endearing growl of frustration.

When Credence moves lower, to nuzzle against Percival’s belly, his chin and sharp jaw rasp against the coarse hair trailing down. One moment, a hot cheek is pressed into the curve of his groin; the next, Credence closes his mouth over the head of his cock.

Percival almost shouts at the heat, the pure intensity, of the feeling. He clutches at a cushion with one hand, the other remaining on Credence’s head, while he’s being sucked down with a hungry moan. He watches himself disappearing between the red lips, emerging wet and glistening with saliva again and again. He feels, and hears, Credence’s triumphant moan when he gets close. And, in a near panic, he pulls back, heels digging into sand, hands reluctantly pushing at Credence.

Credence looks up at him slack-mouthed, lips wet and shining, eyes black as coal and almost fierce.

Percival murmurs soothing words of affection, fingertips tracing a hot temple. He reaches out and fumbles in his satchel, extracting the device Snape gave him. With trembling fingers, he fits the ring to the base of his hard shaft, hoping he can tighten it before the intent look in Credence’s eyes undoes him and it’s too late. As it turns out, it tightens itself the moment it’s perfectly in place, and he groans both with relief and the dawning realisation that he _won’t_ truly find relief for some time.

Credence begins to examine the new addition to his cock with interest, but his eyes are too glazed, his fever too high, to analyse, and he loses focus. He dives back down on him instead, sucking and slurping messily.

Percival knows that, without the ring, he’d have come already, just from watching Credence’s hunger and desperation, the way he bobs up and down on his cock with hollowed cheeks. The undone robe still hangs off his shoulders, blue silk shimmering in the warm fireglow and shifting over the curves of his arse as he thrusts it back while sucking.

Percival’s groan of anticipation to sink himself into him at last makes Credence look up. It’s clear, even with his fevered confusion, that he’s reading Percival loud and clear. He scrambles up, is about to simply take him in with no thought to preparation, when Percival grips his hips and shakes his head, smiling.

He lays Credence out in front of him and kneels between his thighs, on which wet trails are glistening. Percival laps at the bittersweet fluids while pushing an extra pillow beneath him. Credence is moaning and shifting from side to side, stilling only when Percival’s hands tighten on his thighs as he parts them further. He seems to hold his breath when the tip of Percival’s tongue tracks a silvery streak down the curve of his inner thigh and to his hole, making a barely humanoid sound when the wet muscle pushes and wriggles inside. He somehow, despite his inexperience, and probably due to his feverish need, relaxes to the intrusion so eagerly, Percival can lick into him with ease.

Deeply grateful for the presence of the ring, Percival can’t decide whether the fiery heat of the channel around his tongue or Credence’s sounds--at once pleading and demanding--are more exciting. He alternates between deep stabs and tickling circles just inside the rim, his right hand moving up to curl around the base of the cock dripping on Credence’s stomach. When the sounds become desperate, and long fingers begin to twist in his hair, he pulls back a little, but Credence won’t stand for any teasing, one long leg clamping over his shoulder as he snarls.

Percival answers him with a groan, sliding a single finger into him along with his tongue while he strokes him hard. He’s barely started when Credence cries out, shaking all over and spilling hotly over himself and Percival’s hand. Percival draws back very slowly, continuing to circle his finger inside him until Credence stops spasming around it and falls back limply.

One part of him, however, is still anything but limp. Something with which Percival can identify as he shifts to sit on his haunches, gazing down at the beautiful mess the counselor has made of himself, with _his_ help. He feels both awed and proud. He’s also beginning to feel as flushed and feverish as Credence looks, assuming it to be a symptom of holding off his own orgasm.

“Please…” Credence croaks, reaching up towards him, eyes like black sea glass.

Percival takes his hands and stills them against his own sternum, hushing him. He knows there’s no need to tell Credence, so he merely thinks about what he’s going to do.

A wanton moan answers him, and Percival wonders whether the ring is going to lose its effectiveness with the _sounds_ Credence makes. He’s dripping, and painfully hard, when he coats his cock with a generous dose of the nearest of the two lubricants. Preparing Credence is easy--he’s open, wet, and desperate to be taken, and it’s a matter of moments before three fingers slide into him easily.

He looks up at Percival, heavy-lidded and pleading, and Percival just wants him to rest, lie back. He shifts his knees wider apart where he kneels, lifting Credence’s thighs over them at the same time. Every little shift in the prone body’s position seems to induce a little gasp, a whimper or a shiver, and Percival is certain he’s beginning to feel the sensations as well as see their results. Going through this is intense and draining. Credence’s right hand finds his left where it rests on the damp thigh, squeezing limply but affectionately.

Drawing Credence, whose legs are spread wide over his, as close as he can while guiding himself to the glistening hole, Percival prays the ring can stand up to this. Once he’s breached the rim, getting used to the heat, he takes a few deep breaths, then pulls Credence even closer by his thighs.

A long drawn-out groan has him closing his eyes and biting his lip, but Credence is no longer lying back limply, he’s rocking onto him, back arching, toes curling into the cave sand.

Percival watches himself slide in and out of him with Credence’s frantic rocking, and it’s almost too much, _would_ be too much under normal circumstances. When the long arms reach up to him, eyes open wide and pleading, he pulls Credence up into his arms, and he’s so hard and inside him so deep, the shift to sitting back on his haunches with Credence on his lap doesn’t disconnect them. Credence clings to him, arms around his neck, groaning and bouncing madly, managing to take him even deeper inside.

“My Imzadi,” Percival breathes. His hands roam the overheated, continuously moving form. This is vaguely familiar, from their inadvertent connection days ago, but so _so_ much better. 

Credence grunts as if in agreement, rocking on him hard. His face is buried in the crook of Percival’s neck, fingers digging into his back, nails almost breaking his skin. When he comes, with an impossibly hot clench around Percival’s throbbing cock, he bites down on the ridge of his shoulder.

It doesn’t hurt, but it makes Percival _groan_. Suddenly, _he_ wants nothing more than to sink his teeth lovingly into Credence’s flesh, watching the velvet skin give a little and redden with the marks of his passion.

“Oh please, _please!_” Credence throws back his head, offering his neck, even as he scratches at Percival’s back.

Percival growls against the damp skin, brushing the hair aside and clutching it in his fist while he sucks hard. Then both hands are in Credence’s hair, holding it back and out of the way of his frantic sucking kisses to his neck, his long licks over the bobbing Adam’s apple and, finally, his bite at the juncture of neck and shoulder, mirroring what Credence did to him.

Credence cries out, grows somehow fully hard once more against Percival’s stomach; and Percival is painfully envious of yet another impending release.

“My love… take it off,” Credence rasps, his voice sounding as if he hasn’t used it in days, rather than minutes. He lifts up, trembling above Percival’s lap, his knees barely supporting him anymore. “Please, I need you. I need _all_ of your release!” His fingers are searching for the tight band, too eager to be of any use in removing it.

Groaning, unwilling to suffer any longer in the face of Credence’s pleas, Percival helps him to disconnect the ring, and there’s barely time for Credence to sink back down on his cock before he comes, shooting up into him hotly. It seems to last forever, the intensity of it such that he sobs into the neck he’s marked so possessively. Credence too is crying, his hands fluttering all over his back and shoulders and head and arms. 

It’s the longest lasting orgasm of Percival’s life, and the most intense. He feels Credence clenching around his spurting cock over and over, milking him, greedily demanding more… and receiving it. The pale hands cup his face and he’s kissed breathless while Credence keeps holding him inside… somehow. He should, surely, be growing soft?

When the kiss-swollen lips release Percival’s, they stare into each other’s eyes… Credence’s clearer now, but astonished, while to Percival, everything seems out of focus, slightly unreal. Especially the fact that he is still almost fully hard after filling Credence far past capacity. He can feel his own unexpectedly hot fluids dripping between his thighs.

“It has transferred to you,” Credence whispers, blinking, “the blood fever.”

“How?” Percival asks, barely recognising his voice. He leans in and kisses the edge of Credence’s jaw, down his red, splotchy neck… he feels so wonderfully cool to him now.

“It… uh… it can happen, a telepathic bond can form and transfer the plak tow, like a virus.”

Percival grunts, adjusting Credence on his lap. He is, indeed, still hard, and they both shiver. “I need to…”

Credence nods and is laid down on the cushions, drawing his knees up and wide, wrapping his arms around Percival’s heated neck. “Please,” he says.

This time, with Credence wet and dripping with his seed, it takes only a few hard thrusts before Percival comes again. Credence follows him over the edge with a whimpering sigh and they slump together limply, except… still slightly hard.

***

After a few minutes, Credence whispers a suggestion into Percival’s ear and, shortly after, they’re wading naked, holding hands, into the calm, crystalline waves of the Opal Sea where it laps at the mouth of the cave. The cool water is perfection, and they go in far enough to feel it lapping at their chests before turning to each other and kissing hungrily, When they pull back, they know the urges are far from sated.

But they can wait... until they’ve had a cooling, refreshing swim in their private paradise.


	6. Chapter 6

After some time, lying on the warm, glittering sand, with water lapping at their legs and hips, Percival looks down at Credence, smiling. He strokes the long wet hair back from his face, tucking it behind the counselor’s ears and brushing it off the smooth forehead tenderly with his fingertips. _You’re so beautiful._

The red lips--swollen and plusher than ever from plentiful and vigorous kissing--turn up in a teasing smile he never, even days ago, would have thought possible. “I like your thoughts about me, Imzadi, especially when you’re not trying to hide them.”

Percival laughs. “I don’t think I could hide either my thoughts or my feelings from you anymore.” When Credence’s smile widens, he says sheepishly, “I doubt I was ever very good at it.”

A hand, cooler now than his own skin, reaches up to stroke his cheek, and he leans into the touch. “You did better than most, and no one else has ever tried so hard, purely to protect me.”

“I would do _anything_ to protect you, Credence,” Percival says fiercely. “I would take on the Romulans, a full Bird of Prey’s complement worth of drunken and battle-hungry Klingons, Nausicaans, _the Borg!_ I would--”

Fingertips rest on his lips, and Credence laughs softly. “I love you.”

Percival swallows hard. His hand closes easily around a pale wrist. “You do?” he whispers. When Credence nods at once, he surges forward and presses his mouth to the smiling lips. His right knee searches for a space in the wet sand between the long legs, and his whole body slides against the prone temptation now underneath him.

Credence groans into his mouth. They’re both still hard, despite the cool water, and growing harder as they move together.

“I can’t get enough of you,” Percival pants against the hollow of Credence’s throat.

Credence’s lips part, and his neck arches. “Nor I of you.” 

His voice is soft and rough at once, and it drives Percival crazy. Though he’s willing to admit, his accidental catching of the pon farr isn’t making him the sanest he’s ever been. He feels Credence’s amusement at that, he feels _him_ in his very bones. That part he’s sure will never go away.

Long fingers slide into his hair and they kiss again, moving against each other, the hot trickles of seed instantly washed away by the sea which laps at their flesh like a million tongues.

Grunting, Credence tries to anchor himself in the wet sand with his feet as Percival ruts against him, moaning and panting, pressing down into him and kissing a cheek, a shoulder, the side of his neck… whatever he can reach in between waves buffering them from side to side.

“I love you, Imzadi,” Percival gasps against his lips, nudging them both into the next climax with a firm thrust against him.

Credence’s cry of completion is almost musical this time. _Siren Song_, Percival thinks, before collapsing in his arms.

***

Later, they’re sitting beside the campfire in the cave.

Percival is naked, still too overheated not to enjoy the cooling touch of the water only slowly evaporating off his skin.

Credence sits beside him, loosely wrapped in a thin red silken blanket, his eyes moving over the expanse of skin shimmering golden in the warm light. His blanket is gathered in front of his body, in the grasp of his fingers. The silk barely clings to his arms below his bare shoulders, on which loose waves of hair are drying, caressing the shimmering flesh with every turn of his head or tilt of his face; the effect is unbearably sensual. 

Percival can’t stop looking at him. At this point, he doubts _his_ version of this blood fever will ever cool. Almost ashamed by how utterly lust-crazed he feels, his eyes drop to the slender feet poking out from the blanket,one tucked behind the other near the fire, toes curling with the warmth. He groans softly, torn between the need to tenderly ravish his beautiful lover or wrap him in his arms and shield him from the entire universe.

Credence smiles teasingly in his direction. "If you have a mind to ravish _anything_," he murmurs, "I believe first it should be something truly edible." 

Percival raises his brows and watches in curiosity as his lover rises and moves into the shadows of the cave. After only a brief moment, he returns, this time with a small basket clutched in his hands. The woven container is nearly spilling over with various unfamiliar fruits, and a carafe of some sort of beverage is nestled in amongst them. 

Percival flushes at the ferocity of his own thoughts: before anything close to hunger, the first image the basket arouses in him is one of feeding each juicy morsel into Credence's mouth by hand. It's more than an idea-- suddenly the prospect feels like an imperative. 

Beneath his lashes, Credence flashes him a sidelong glance and another coy smile. 

_I believe I would enjoy that as much as you, Imzadi._

Percival gasps at the realisation that he's only heard the words in his mind rather than aloud on the damp air, but he knows he's not mistaken. Credence simply nods and moves to sit closer in the sand, but the look he turns on him now is nothing short of adoration. 

He doesn't know if it's due only to the blood fever, but Percival _does_ know that if it is, he wants to cherish every moment of this depth of connection. 

"I don't know if it will last in full," Credence murmurs, this time out loud. "So much of what is passing between us is unprecedented. But somehow I have the sense that… you may be able to train your mind into greater openness after this, just as you've trained it to shield." 

"I truly hope so," Percival breathes, still holding to his astonishment. He never wants to be separated from his love, in even the smallest of ways. 

"First, you must _live_ to see the day," Credence laughs, plucking a fist-sized red fruit and holding it out demonstratively. 

Laughing with him, Percival finally feels the first stirrings of his genuine hunger as he takes the fruit. "What is it?" he asks, after a brief examination. 

"A Vulcan fruit," Credence answers. "A gespar. The rind is renowned for its use in the making of soaps and perfumes.”

Percival gives it a curious sniff. “I can see why,” he says. “It smells almost as good as you do.”

He tears it open with both hands, finding a seed pod at the centre just as he’d expected to. It’s these universal similarities and patterns that often keep him feeling sane, though he suspects the (far less mysterious) presence at his side will be doing the bulk of that from now on. Smiling at the thought and the warm sensation of silent _agreement_ he feels from Credence, he digs in his thumbs and pries free a section of the ripe fruit. 

Without his having to ask, Credence leans closer and gently parts his lips to receive it. The simple sight and the intimacy of it holds Percival momentarily frozen as he merely gazes at his lover’s open expression, his plush mouth. Something like this seemed further away than the deepest reaches of space only yesterday, and yet here they are: having made love for hours and sharing thoughts as well as food. 

Percival shakes himself from his reverie and places the segment of fruit onto Credence’s waiting tongue, watching as it disappears inside. A trickle of pale juice escapes his lips, trailing down over his chin; Percival groans to see it, dipping forward and licking it away at once. He doesn’t stop there, taking Credence’s face between his palms and chasing after the taste of the sweet fruit in his mouth even as he swallows it. For a long moment, they both lose themselves in the devouring kiss before finally pulling back for air. 

_I think you are quite preoccupied with putting things in me_, Credence thinks at him, and as teasing as his words are, his eyes are dark: telling Percival there may only be a handful of moments before he’s once again ‘putting things in him’ with vigour. 

Credence takes the fruit from his hands then and repeats the tender ritual in reverse: feeding a morsel of the sharply tangy fruit into his mouth only to chase it soon after with a kiss. Back and forth, they take turns at this until neither can take it anymore. They’re soon groaning into one another’s sticky mouths, tongues pressed and stroking, all thoughts of any other sustenance forgotten.

“Imzadi,” Credence moans, “take me, take me _hard_.” With the words, he discards his red silk drapings in the sand and follows them down, dropping onto his hands and knees to present himself to Percival in a raw display. There is no need for preparation this time, all that’s required is a quick swipe of the slippery salve over Percival’s aching length before he slides himself fully in with a shuddering growl. 

“Yes, _Imzadi, yes_!” Credence is sobbing the words, “I _feel_ you…” 

“I want you to feel me always, precious one,” Percival pants. “You’re mine, my love, my life…. my _Imzadi_…” He punctuates every tender word with a rough, jolting thrust, as though he could brand their meaning deep inside him with every stroke, etch them for all time, secret and safe.

“No one will touch you, no one will hurt you,” he vows. “I don’t breathe if you don’t... I don’t exist without you, my _t’hy'la_, my _blood_.” Even as he spills inside him once more, feeling Credence’s own orgasm pull him down as though caught in the grip of an undertow, Percival marvels at the use of a Vulcan word he didn’t even know before it left his lips. _You change me, Imzadi_, he thinks, curling his sweating body around Credence in the sand, _You’re changing me. You make me more than I was. How did I live before you?_

_I, too, have waited for you, my love. I have never felt complete before finding you. Before being loved by you. Always, I feel the emotions of others, but you… you make me feel my own._ Turning in Percival’s arms after a shuddering sob is exhaled against his nape, Credence presses into him, his fingers tracing Percival’s face tenderly as their eyes meet. _And to feel you, and hear your thoughts, and to know you are able to do the same… I feel safe. Comforted. I never want to lose this connection again._

Percival presses their foreheads together. _Nor do I, t’hy'la. To be able to hear you so clearly, to always know if you are well and secure… I would give my soul to make this last._

Credence whimpers softly. _Perhaps… perhaps you do not need to give it, but merely to ensure it is bound to mine._

_Tell me how, if there is a way, any way at all, and I will do it!_

Credence looks deep into his eyes. He’s breathing hard. _Will you bond with me, my heart? Not an accidental bond, nor the physical bond of a single pon farr alone, but… permanently?_

_A marriage_, Percival thinks, and his sheer happiness at the thought is nearly overwhelming but, even through the storm of emotion he cannot control, he still picks up the nuances of Credence’s response, refining his own definition.

_A soul bond, Imzadi._

_Yes! A thousand times, yes._ He kisses Credence as if it is the first, the last… the _only_ kiss ever given. He pours all that he is into it, and they kiss until they taste each other’s tears of joy. _Now, t’hy'la_... Their lips separate, barely.

Credence lies back, black hair a soft halo around his beautiful face, his legs parted around Percival’s hips, drawing him in. _Take me, Imzadi. Take me, while we meld._

Percival tenderly arranges the long legs and enters Credence’s body with the same perfect ease with which they can enter each other’s thoughts now.

Credence gasps softly, and places his fingers on Percival’s face as he did once before, looking deep into his eyes. _My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts._

When he pauses, Percival instinctively knows how to respond. Resting on his elbows, he mirrors Credence’s touch as closely as he can. _My heart to your heart. My soul to your soul._ He thrusts gently deeper, and he knows… _knows_ he is home.

Credence sighs happily as his body clenches around him. _As it was in the dawn of our days, as it will be for all tomorrows… to you, Percival, my eternal love, my husband, I consecrate all that I am._

_Credence, my eternal love, my husband, from you I receive all that I am. As it was in the beginning, so it shall be for all time._ Percival thrusts deep inside him, his breath stuttering to a halt with the sheer love and tenderness in Credence’s eyes.

_Two bodies… one soul._ Credence is whimpering, countering his thrusts.

_Two bodies… one soul._

When Percival fills him this time, all traces of the fever drain from him, only to leave behind a softly glowing warmth, a deep and abiding feeling of mutual devotion, in them both.

***

_Captain's Log, Stardate 41169.7_

_Counselor Barbok and I, or should I simply say 'Credence, my t'hy'la, my Imzadi'..._

_Well, we spent three days altogether on holodeck 3, although for the both of us, I believe it will always be the Opal Sea no matter what program it is currently running._

_During that time, we…. I want to say we bonded, but that would barely do it justice, and if anything, I aspire to do justice by him in every respect. What I will say is that we have become one: soul to soul, heart to heart, mind to mind. We shared the experience of pon farr, (a first for both of us), and our thoughts and feelings are now forever open to one another, as well as the entirety of our lives. It is understood between us both, and the rest of the crew, that we will likely be formally wed as soon as the passing of one month by Earth's calendar and no longer._

_I should note that upon our return to duty, Doctor Snape was momentarily nonplussed to learn that I had little need of his assistance in the end. But once we had explained the reason why…. I believe the discovery of a human experiencing not only pon farr, but a full telepathic bond with a Vulcan/Betazoid mate will launch his career in Starfleet to a place of legend. Needless to say, we have spent quite some time since then being rigorously studied under his care, for the sake of his medical journals, and I suppose, history itself._

***

The murmur of Ten Forward envelops Captain Graves like a warm cocoon of sound and familiar activity. And to the outside observer, it would appear as though nothing much about it has changed since he took command of the USS Obscurus: the stars hold their place just beyond his beloved floor-to-ceiling windows, Ensigns Kiernan and De Soto are still embroiled in their ongoing game of chess… 

But the Captain no longer watches the door in abject longing. He doesn't need to. 

In fact, his eyes are fixed firmly on the passing stars outside, the Bordeaux in his glass swirling from time to time as he loses himself in thought. When his _Imzadi_ enters the lounge, he doesn't look, either. Instead, he briefly closes his eyes in warm contentment, safe in the knowledge that all is well and despite appearances, _everything_ has changed. 

_Good evening, my love. I hope I haven't kept you long?_

A cool palm settles over the back of his neck and Percival reaches up to place his hand over it and hold it there a moment as they watch outside the window, two pairs of eyes and one mind. 

_I'd wait forever, you know that. But no, not long. It's been pleasant in here, and now it's infinitely more so._

Credence settles into the space the captain has made for him in the plush chair just _barely_ large enough for two. His head nestles comfortably against his lover's shoulder, and if anyone nearby should glance their way in curiosity, neither of them pay it any mind. 

_I'd say I had never suspected you for such a romantic from the start, but we both know that would be a lie._

Percival smiles softly at that. _Betazed is only 76 hours away on this current setting. Are we still in agreement about holding the ceremony on the beach? The real one, this time… _

_Yes. I can't imagine anything more appropriate than that, can you?_ He cuddles in a little closer. _Did I mention that according to tradition, a wedding on Betazed is conducted entirely in the nude?_

Percival raises his brows even as his gentle smile grows into a full grin. This time, no one turns in surprise at the sound of Credence's sudden peal of laughter, if only because, _this time_, it can be heard by only two.


	7. Chapter 7

The shore of the Opal Sea, in actuality, is a sight to behold. Just as beautiful as it was on holodeck 3--though, this time, not nearly as private. It is the memory of that privacy, and all that happened in its safety, that now has Captain Graves blushing sweetly at the altar. 

Another reason to blush: the smirking presence of Betazoid Federation Ambassador Lwaxana Troi. Percival and Credence had made the decision to have her officiate the ceremony for many reasons, from diplomatic relations, to Federation and, by extension, familial connections. She is mother to Deanna Troi of the USS Enterprise (another half-Betazoid ship’s counselor, and a respected peer of Credence’s), as well as aunt to their own Doctor Severus Snape. And now, Lwaxana Troi, daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed is standing naked before them both in the pale sands, beaming knowingly. 

Next to him, hand in his, Credence himself faintly colours--a sight that is difficult to conceal when everyone assembled remains unclad as tradition dictates. It’s unusual enough to see Credence flush, and Percival can only surmise what’s caused it. 

_What has she said to you?_ He asks, knowing of course that only Credence’s mind is open to him, a fact which, especially now, he is most deeply grateful for. 

_She is both admiring your apparent… virility, my love, and congratulating me for it._

Percival can’t help but smirk himself, at that. 

“_Captain,_ ” Lwaxana chides aloud, turning her glittering onyx eyes to sweep her gaze over him appreciatively. “Such thoughts about me, and on your wedding day!” 

A soft huff sounds out from the assembled before Counselor Troi inevitably interjects. “_Mother…_ ”

Yet, here on the shore of the Opal Sea, on a day of such importance, surrounded by the entire unclothed crew and nearly a million thoughts and feelings… Percival has eyes only for his Imzadi. His anchor: his past, present, and now… future. 

_I’m already yearning for the time when we’re alone again… when we consummate our union._ He spares a glance for Lwaxana, still mischievously smiling. _And I don’t care who knows it._

Credence smiles softly up into his face. _She congratulates me again with highest praise for you. And I am in full agreement. Although we have ‘consummated’ our union already, most enthusiastically and many times over._

A slightly pained expression settles on Percival’s face then. _Perhaps, this is, after all, best not thought about too vividly right now. You and your people may be the only ones privy to my thoughts and emotions, but the entire crew would be privy to their effect on my body._

While Credence giggles at this quietly inside Percival’s mind, Lwaxana guffaws out loud before quickly composing herself again--more or less. As Percival has chosen Severus Snape as his best man, he is all too aware of the man’s horrified reaction just in the corner of his eye.

_My poor Imzadi,_ Credence thinks lovingly.

Percival smiles at him. _When we next renew our vows, let’s do so on Vulcan, clad head to foot in concealing robes._

_Agreed._

They repeat their vows, much as they made them to each other privately in the Vulcan way; this time, according to Betazoid tradition, with equal enthusiasm and solemnity. The service, to Percival’s delight and concern, concludes with a kiss which, on Betazed, is encouraged to be… intense.

When Credence draws back after a time span Percival can’t even guess at, they are both breathless, and more than relieved that the entire wedding party is ushered towards the banqueting area where a large number of tables is set up in a horseshoe shape and facing the sea. All the way there, they are showered with flower petals and well-wishes.

The sun is beginning to set before they reach the centre of the open space in front of the tables, for Credence has ensured everything was timed just right.

A group of musicians is seated nearby, and they begin to play the beautifully gentle, traditional music of their homeworld. Percival thinks that only the perfect combination of harps, chiming bells and violins could possibly hope to match the ethereal quality of Betazoid music.

_Will you dance with me, Imzadi?_ Percival asks, holding out his hand, and Credence’s rests gently in his palm.

They dance in the cooling sand, swaying and turning in the pink-golden light of the setting sun, too lost in each other to think about the watching crowd. Soon, others begin to join them, but for Percival there is only Credence, and for Credence there is only Percival, and everyone keeps a respectful distance.

Lwaxana Troi stands by the tables, dramatically dabbing at her right eye as she watches the happy couple spin on the shimmering sand. 

Meanwhile, her daughter smiles to herself as she watches her cousin Severus coax a reluctant Lieutenant Barclay into a dance. Her colleague, and sometimes patient, is not so much reluctant about dancing with Severus--quite the opposite--but reluctant about venturing out from behind the protective shield of a tablecloth. She snickers when only an encouraging, “Trust me, Lieutenant Barclay, you have nothing to hide,” finally helps Severus achieve his aim.

The evening moves on with steadily increasing revelry, with drinking and dancing and music that picks up the tempo with each new song. The celebration is, in itself, quite like making love: building towards some sort of impending crescendo. It's clear that many of the guests feel it too, some quietly pairing off into shadowy corners, some simply unable to hide the amorous nature of their feelings even there on the moonlit sand amongst the other dancers. 

It's that very moonlight that Percival is waiting for, yet another feature of a Betazoid wedding that seems only to amplify with the coming of night. Not long after sundown, the first of the planet's three moons had risen, then the second one nearly an hour later. Another half hour gone by, Percival sees it first--the third moon--cresting the horizon. He sighs and turns his husband in the sand to watch it rise. According to custom, now is the time they will finally be permitted to slip away into the shadows themselves, though not without a great deal of fanfare. 

The music rings out, rising, it seems, along with the moon, and the guests cheer and applaud. They raise their glasses--a final, heartfelt toast is made, and Credence is leading him away down the beach along a petal-strewn path. For the guests, the festivities will likely carry on until dawn, and so it will be for the newlyweds as well, as far as Percival is concerned. 

The seaside cave appears around a bend in the shore, filling his chest with a sudden ache to see it and remember what it means to them both. What it will _always_ mean. Only this time, here on Betazed, it has been even more carefully prepared for their stay. 

There are silks laid out, and even furs… all manner of finest bedding to accommodate their stay. Along one far wall of the cave, a low table has been placed, set with an abundance of fruits and various delicacies, enough to nearly rival the wedding banquet itself. Percival spots a carafe of what is undoubtedly his favourite Bordeaux and smiles. 

_It's good to be home again, and here with you._ He fills the thought with all the warmth of his love. 

_This time, we do not have the heat of pon farr to urge us on…_

Percival comes up behind him and pulls his husband back to hold him flush against his chest. Brushing his hair aside, he trails a path of kisses along his neck which quickly turn to gentle, teasing bites. He is already hard, and considers his feat of self control throughout the wedding to be one of his greatest achievements. _Then we will take our time._

With a soft sigh, Credence lets his head fall back against Percival’s shoulder. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, and he hums with pleasure as Percival’s lips move along his neck... kiss along the sharp ridge of his jaw… exhale, very carefully, warm breath into the shell of his ear.

Shivering, Credence presses into him harder, his hands straying back to Percival’s hips, fingertips playing along his hip bones. _Make love to me, Imzadi, as if it was the first time, for tonight, we will both be fully aware of each touch, each kiss… each-- Ah!_

Percival is gently chewing the tender ridge of his ear, his breath a constant tease. Then his hands begin to wander, from Credence’s shoulders down his arms, fingers briefly sliding between his when he covers the hands on his own hips. He winds his arms around the narrow waist next, fingers caressing the smooth, warm skin of his stomach. His left hand moves up, fingertips making their way purposefully to the tender nub hardening with anticipation; just as he reaches it, making Credence gasp, his right hand comes to rest on his belly, tugging playfully at the hair leading down to Credence’s gorgeous cock--which is rising towards him eagerly.

_I’m going to feast on you tonight, my love. I’m going to taste and worship every inch of you, starting with your sweet mouth._

Percival turns Credence gently, with his fingers sliding up into his hair from his nape. He turns him just far enough to find the open mouth with his own. They kiss slowly but messily, licking into each other’s mouths, tenderly chewing on a lip at a time, then sucking on the wet, reddened flesh until they’re both moaning.

Credence is tugging at Percival’s hair, and he gets the hint, gazing up into his eyes as he turns him the rest of the way, kissing down his chin, his neck… over his chest--one nipple at a time--and down over the fluttering flesh of his sternum and his belly. He slowly slides to his knee before his husband, and Credence’s cock nudges against the underside of his jaw as if demanding attention, and Percival is more than happy to give it.

The soft, drawn-out groan when he slides his mouth over the flushed head, sucking noisily, makes him even harder than he was, but he doesn’t care if he comes long before he can take Credence. This is just about _him_. He wants him to know how he is adored. How he is _cherished._

_I know it, Imzadi. I love you, and I adore and cherish you too. You are my life._

Percival gazes up at him, his feelings laid bare. He tenderly worships Credence, kissing and licking, delightedly swallowing each drop he can extract from the flushed head, his hands tenderly kneading the smooth globes of his arse, stroking his hips, caressing his thighs… He fumbles in the silks underneath them until he finds the lubricant he’s spotted earlier, and slicks up his fingers.

Credence twists his hands in his hair, not painfully, but it’s all he can reach of Percival while he kisses the insides of his thighs, widens Credence’s stance gently, then nudges at his opening just as he draws his cock back into his mouth. His timing is perfect, and Credence allows him in with ease by now, so used to his touch--and Percival to his--they can now feel each other even when apart. If not this… _deeply._

_Oh, my Imzadi… my love!_ Credence coos sweetly inside Percival’s mind, holding his fingers, added one by one, inside his hot, clenching hole.

He’s close, so close, Percival can taste it and the way his bittersweet flavour changes as he thrusts his fingers, gently curves them a little more each time until that hitching of his breath, the little shuddering exhale, the throbbing of the shaft on his tongue and, finally… the warm gush of his essence down Percival’s throat.

For a long moment, Percival kneels before him, head gently pressed to his trembling thigh and panting as though he were the one only just having spilled his release. His own cock twitches at the mere thought of it and he feels Credence's cool fingers combing through his hair. 

_Lie back, Imzadi, let me tend to you now._

He obeys gratefully, albeit with a flutter of reluctance when the movement requires even the briefest detachment from his husband's touch. The silks and furs beneath him are luxurious, cool and soothing--and his stomach flutters with the anticipation of what his lover is going to do when he sees the heat of his gaze. 

_Yes, my love. I want you writhing underneath me, as I've dreamed you..._

Percival remembers what he glimpsed so quickly during their first mind meld in the ready room: Credence astride him, lost in pleasure, Credence with his hand on himself, moaning his name. He groans, wanting that more than anything. It occurs to him then that this time, a mind meld will not be necessary--they are already connected, joined as one even without touching. A small, growing pool glistens over his abdomen where his cock steadily drips; he's so achingly hard… he would beg if asked to. 

_No need for begging,_ Credence tells him, _I'm yours to have and to keep._

_Yes…_

Where the silks are cool against his back, Credence's mouth is hot and almost excruciatingly good as he trails wet kisses over his collarbone, his chest…. licking and nipping his way steadily down. 

His red lips close over the head of his cock, tongue swirling, and Percival shudders out a groan, aloud this time. 

_Yes… sing for me Imzadi, let me hear you…_

_Oh, Credence, I could live inside your beautiful mouth…. I won't last long…_

Dark eyes meet his in the warm firelight as Credence mercifully raises his head. The salve lays open and ready near the edge of their makeshift bed--he reaches for it, slicking Percival's cock gently so as not to push him over the edge. Not yet. 

_I need you inside me, husband, always inside me._

Credence raises up and straddles him then, still open and ready from the attentions of Percival's careful hands. As he slides himself easily onto his husband's length, slowly and with such intention…. Percival not only feels his own keen pleasure, but Credence's as well. He feels the perfect warmth of his embrace, and at once, the absolute rightness, the deep satisfaction of being _filled_. Completely one, no longer able to tell where he ends and Credence begins. 

"_Ohhhh_ Credence," he moans. _Oh my love, my life… I feel you, I know you._

He isn't sure whether he speaks the words out loud or only thinks them, safe in the understanding that it truly doesn't matter. Credence hears him either way, and feels his mounting pleasure just as acutely as Percival does. His own slim fingers reach to grasp himself, already hard again with the overwhelming sensations, and he rocks in sinuous waves atop Percival--as fluid as the ocean crashing on the shore outside the cave. 

_Do you remember, Imzadi?_ he asks. _Do you remember our dream? How we pleasured ourselves to the thought of it, just like this… my hand tight around us…. how badly we wanted one another, oh…_

_I remember! Oh, it's you, it's us… it always has been._

Credence leans forward, gasping in time with him to twine his fingers through Percival's, one hand still stroking in perfect tune to the depth of his thrusts. 

"Imzadi, I love you!" 

They cry out the words in perfect unison as they crest and spill, spiralling together like a pair of shooting stars in the darkness.


End file.
